The Merry Wives of Downton Negotiate an Encore
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: They are putting on Twelfth Night, thinking- mistakingly- that it might be a little bit easier the second time around.
1. Chapter 1

**The Merry Wives of Downton Negotiate an Encore.**

**Here it be; the sequel. Enjoy. **

**-Prologue-**

"_Twelfth Night_!" Sybil was adamant, she was not going to back down on this, "Don't you see, Edith, that's the whole point? We are doing _Twelfth Night _for Twelfth Night!"

"That's not fair, Mama," Edith complained, "Sybil chose the play last time, I asked to do _Romeo and Juliet _then, and we ended up with _Macbeth_!"

Cora, sensing that some diplomacy was in order here, took a deep breath and prayed that her mother-in-law wouldn't open her mouth before she got the chance to.

"Edith, dear, I don't think we ought to do two tragedies in a row," she told her daughter kindly, "Everyone would think us very morbid!" 

To be frank, Edith could not see why that particularly mattered. Nor could she see why Sybil should be the one to get her own way all of the time.

"Why do you have your heart so set on _Twelfth Night_,anyway?" she asked her younger sister, "One would almost have thought you quite relished the idea of cross-dressing."

"Edith!"

Apparently their grandmother _was_ paying attention: as she had so far failed to distribute her opinions as widely as possible, Sybil had had her doubts about whether she was aware of the conversation at all. As for herself, however, she was supremely unperturbed by her sister's remark.

"Because I've already cast the principal parts," was her reply.

"Sybil!" her mother exclaimed, "You can't do that!"

"Why not?" she enquired, "I practically cast the last one myself. And directed it. And acted in it." None of them- neither of her sisters, nor her mother, nor her grandmother, nor even Aunt Rosamund- could refute that. "We are short of time as it is," she pointed out, "Don't forget, the staff will have our Christmas to sort out as well, it will be much more straightforward if we just go ahead with the main cast I've decided on, rather than going through rounds of auditions to allow me to arrive at the very same conclusion."

They were quiet for a few moments, seeming to mull it over. She got the feeling she had successfully impressed upon them how serious she was, for once the women in her family appeared to adopt a timid air.

"How many roles have you cast already?" Aunt Rosamund enquired.

"Four."

"And are you playing one of them?" Edith asked testily.

"Of course."

"Viola?" It surprised her to hear Mary speak, she had been very quiet this morning. And now that she looked properly, Sybil got the impression the her sister was watching her in something like admiration.

Sybil shook her head.

"Olivia."

**-Chapter 1-**

"Tom?"

Sybil came clattering happily down the servants' stairs to- rather more happily- find the chauffeur standing at the foot of them. Seeing her, he smiled and held out his hand to help her down the last few stairs. Though the gesture was both thoroughly unnecessary and rather touching, there was not time for all of that now.

"Have you seen Mrs Hughes?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"It's Wednesday," he replied, as if that explained everything, "I thought you might be looking for me."

"Sorry," she replied, checking that no one was looking before standing on her tiptoes and kissing him quickly, "What do you mean "It's Wednesday." ?"

"Her day off," he replied.

Sybil had the urge to curse out loud; she really needed to get things under way as quickly as possible. That, and the fact that she was getting very excited about the prospect of this production now.

"What does she do with her afternoon off?" she asked, on the off-chance that he might know. She was in luck.

"Mrs Crawley comes to sit with her," he replied, "For a good gossip, by all accounts. They've done it every Wednesday since _Macbeth _finished. Though no one's really supposed to know, they thought they would never hear the end of it if Lady Violet found out that Mrs Crawley's made a point of making friends with the servants."

It was odd, Sybil thought, how it seemed that every remotely intimate relationship Mrs Hughes had with other human beings she felt the need to keep secret. 

"They're probably right there," Sybil laughed, "I'm sure they won't mind if I joined them today?"

"I'm sure they wouldn't. M' Lady," he added for effect.

…**...**

"You've already cast it?" Cousin Isobel repeated, "Though, " she added, with something of an exasperated glance at the chair where Sybil sat "I don't know why I'm surprised."

"Only the four main parts," Sybil replied defensively, "What do you think Mrs Hughes?" she sought support from the housekeeper, who was pouring over a copy of the text that Sybil had just given her.

"So that's Viola, Sebastian, Orsino and-..." 

"Olivia. Yes, that's right."

"Are you gong to be Viola?" Mrs Crawley asked.

"Funnily enough, Mary said the same thing," Sybil told her- wondering vaguely if she came across as the type who would particularly enjoy cross-dressing, "But no. Olivia."

"The pretty one," Isobel observed shrewdly.

Sybil grinned reluctantly.

"Yes, as it happens."

Mrs Hughes looked up from the script. Turning to see what she thought of the whole scheme, Sybil was disappointed- though not altogether surprised- to see that she wore the expression of someone who had spotted a snag.

"What?" she asked, hesitantly, bracing herself for a torrent of criticism from a renowned perfectionist.

"According to this we need identical twins, of different genders," she pointed out, "I have to say, I didn't even realise that was possible."

That, Sybil could cope with. In fact, she had already coped.

"They're already cast," she informed them, smugly.

"Who?" the older women wanted to know.

"Matthew's friend Christopher," she replied smartly.

"And who?"

Here was where she might meet some opposition.

"And Gwen," she suggested tentatively. There was a heavy pause. She had been right.

"Lady Sybil," Mrs Hughes began in a judicious tone, which she had heard from the housemaids was never a good sign, "With the greatest respect; while I allowed you to bully me into taking the lead role of a play, I will not allow you to do the same to one of my housemaids."

Expecting to see similar exasperation at Mrs Hughes' unhelpfulness to her own in her cousin, she was surprised when she found nothing of the sort.

"I'm afraid, I agree with Mrs Hughes', my dear," Isobel informed her, "Have you actually asked Gwen if she consents to this?"

Best not answer that.

"Oh good heavens, I thought I could rely on you too!" she exclaimed, frustrated with the pair of them.

The older women exchanged a glance.

"You can," Mrs Hughes informed her, a little more gently, "So long as Gwen agrees, we are the first ones behind you. In fact, I will even audition for a part of my own free will- I might stretch to saying that I enjoyed myself last time-; but make sure she agrees first."

As soon as she had left the basement she went up to drawing room, where she knew Anna and Gwen were polishing the floor that afternoon. Deciding that diplomacy was by far her best card, she knocked politely on the door and waited. Gwen herself answered it, looking surprised to find Sybil knocking on the door in her own home. She got the feeling that her surprise was only about to increase tenfold when she heard what Sybil had to say to her.

"Gwen, I need you to do me the most spectacular favour..."

…**...**

"So, I hear she got her to agree, then."

Normally, Isobel would have gone back to Crawley House by now, but- having been invited by Sybil to stay for dinner- had returned back downstairs to say goodnight to Elsie before returning home. Elsie threw her a rather grim look.

"By what means, though?" the housekeeper wondered, "You know Lady Sybil..."

"Oh, I don't imagine it's anything too serious," Isobel replied vaguely, though not looking all that convinced of it herself.

They both sat in armchairs, feeling rather tired after the sudden surge of excitement around the house today.

"Who do you want to be, then?" Elsie asked, aware that now Sybil had Gwen's consent to go ahead, she and Isobel were honour-bound to back her up.

Isobel cast her rather a wry smile.

"Oh, I'm already sorted out," she informed her, "I did quite fancy playing Maria- another one to add to the catalogue of Gentlewomen I've played on stage- but I've been told that's out of the question if I want to make the costumes as well."

"And do you want to make the costumes?" Elsie enquired.

"Apparently."

Elsie laughed.

"I'm rather glad you said that," she confessed, "Because Charles and I have our eyes on her and Sir Toby."

"I think you're rather too small to play Sir Toby."

When Elsie cast her her best housekeeper's don't-be-frivolous look, she tried a different tack.

"Is that wise?" she enquired seriously, "You two playing _another _married couple?"

"As I understand it, they aren't married for the whole play," Elsie corrected her, hoping that what Charles had told her was right.

"But they spend a substantial proportion of it _flirting_," was the reply, stressing the word as- officially, at least- it was supposed to be Elsie's least favourite activity.

"They didn't find us out the last time," Elsie remarked dismissively.

"Sybil and I did," Isobel pointed out.

"But the two of you are just inordinately nosey." 

Isobel laughed out loud; it was quite refreshing after all of the carefully concealed opinions upstairs to have someone tell her what they really thought of her. Elsie threw her an exasperated look.

"Better get your name down soon, though," Isobel warned her, "Or you'll be beaten to it." From the look on Elsie's face, she did not have the slightest idea what she meant, "Haven't you seen the list in the corridor?"

Elsie shook her head.

"Miss O'Brien's put her name down for it too."

"What?"

Isobel nodded sagely. Elsie looked truly horrified by the notion, and Isobel was not really surprised.

"She can't...- That's to say there's no way that...- She can't marry Charles!" Elsie finally managed to articulate, gesturing frantically, not caring that it was only a play, the notion too horrible to contemplate at all.

"Like I said," Isobel advised her, "Get your name down quickly."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**This story is dedicated to my friend Fourteen Hundred Hours who first introduced me to _Twelfth Night_- the Trevor Nunn one on which this production will be based-and who has a great appreciation of motor cars, and so too of Mr Branson.**

**Mrs Crawley and Mrs Hughes Engage with the Young and The Rest of the Cast is Announced**

Leaving a distressed Elsie to busy herself with a copy of the play's text- her determination to play Maria now having trebled- Isobel made her way down the corridor towards the back door. Cora thought she had already gone by now, and it was not worth enquiries as to where she had been lurking all of this time from Lady Violet just to go home in the motor car, so she resolved to walk. She set out on the narrow road that lead to the front of the house, thinking all the while about this play: as Matthew's friend Christopher had already been cast, no doubt James and George would also want to be involved and shortly her house would once again resemble a school dormitory. They were lively company to be sure, but she only wished she'd been warned a little sooner about this impending liveliness.

It surprised her to see the motor car parked at the edge of the road, at the back corner of the house. She wondered for a moment if she might be able to get a lift after all without troubling Cora, and made her way over. However, much to her dismay, she found that the driver's seat was empty, rather it was the passenger's seat that was occupied by...

"Sybil!" she could not help but exclaim as she saw her through the window, causing the girl to jump more than a little, "What on earth are you doing in the motor at this time of night?"

Though she had all but jumped out of her skin at the sound of Isobel's voice, Sybil pretended not to hear this question, that is until Isobel took it upon herself to wrench the door open with more force than was probably necessary. Sybil gasped as a gust of cold air hit her, looking towards her relative reproachfully.

"I ask again," Isobel began calmly, "What do you think you're doing in the motor car at this time of night?"

"I'm waiting for Tom, if you must know," Sybil replied crossly, "And for heaven's sakes, shut the door; it's freezing!"

Shut the door Isobel did- again forcefully- but did not, as she suspected Sybil had been hinting at, go away; in fact she walked calmly to the other side of the motor and got into the driver's seat.

"I had rather surmised as much," she informed the girl, irritably, "What I do want to know is _why _you're waiting for him? I trust I do want to know why?" she added hurriedly, thinking that there were certain things she was probably best kept ignorant of.

Sybil sighed in frustration, her head lolling back against the seat.

"Yes," she assured her, "I'm sure it's not as torrid as what you're imaging." Isobel was grateful for the cover of darkness to hide her blush, "I suppose you might say we're courting. At least you would if he was of the appropriate social status," she added, not without bitterness.

Relieved as she was that Sybil wasn't being _too _reckless in her dealings with Mr Branson, in this respect she rather resented being tarred with the same brush as Cora, Rosamund and Violet.

"My dear, accuse me of what you like but you'll have a hard time proving me a snob," she warned her bluntly, "I was born into what you might call a "good family"; my son will be an earl one day and, in spite of all of this, my best friend is a housekeeper."

Probably realising that she was right, Sybil said nothing, only folded her arms across her chest and looked out of the windscreen.

"And I suppose," Isobel continued, now in full flow on the subject, "You'll have cast him as Orsino; so he can pursue you assiduously without anyone being the wiser. I have to warn you, my dear, just because Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson got away with it, they didn't cast the play: no one could have accused them of having planned it all!"

"They didn't get away with it," Sybil argued, oddly picking up on the same point as Isobel had when talking to Elsie, "We found them out straight away!"

Isobel gave a wry smile.

"That's apparently because we're abominably nosey," she quoted with a small laugh.

She was glad when Sybil laughed too.

"No, I haven't cast him as Orsino, actually," she informed her, "I haven't cast him at all yet."

"Who on earth have you cast as Orsino, then?" Isobel enquired.

"Cousin Matthew."

"Matthew!" Isobel could not deny her surprise; her son's name was almost the last that she'd have expected to come up, "Good luck with that, my dear."

"Why? Don't you think he'll want to do it?" Sybil asked, frowning, "I didn't think him half bad as Malcolm last time around."

"That's not what I mean," Isobel replied, "I don't think your sister will be too happy about it."

"Which one?" Sybil asked testily.

About to say that was a ridiculous question, but then reconsidered that remark, remembering the great church viewings saga. Perhaps it was rather shrewd really.

"Mary," she qualified, "Can you imagine her being too thrilled by the idea of him pursuing you and then ending up with one of the maids?"

"It's only a play, Cousin Isobel," Sybil reminded her.

"You know what I mean!"

…**...**

"Gwen, could I have a word for a second?"

Having been heading off to bed, her head spinning a little from trying to contemplate everything that had happened in the space of a few hours, the voice surprised her. Half way up the stairs, she turned to see that the housekeeper had appeared on the landing below her.

"Mrs Hughes."

She quickly descended the stairs to talk to her on an equal level and bobbed her curtsey.

"I hear Lady Sybil has... approached you," Mrs Hughes gave the impression of having chosen the word very carefully, "About playing Viola?" 

"Yes, Mrs Hughes, she has," Gwen replied; because that was certainly true.

"And you have said yes?"

"Yes."

"Willingly?" Mrs Hughes raised her eyebrows a little, and added at the expression on Gwen's face, "Don't forget, I was in your shoes last time. And I know I was carted into the drawing room without being allowed so much as a cry of protest!" The housekeeper surveyed her thoroughly. "You have to try to take it as a compliment, Gwen, that she wants you to do it, that's the best approach I found anyway. But, if you don't want to, I'm more than willing to intercede on your behalf."

This surprised Gwen to say the least; she had to admit that at first she had been expecting a speech to the tune of our-duty-to-our-employers, and, though she had just about reconciled herself to this madcap scheme she was touched by Mrs Hughes' willingness to stick up for her.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes, but I think I'll manage. Honestly," she added, seeing the older woman's expression, "I think I'll be fine. I wasn't in the last one so it'll be exciting if nothing else. I might even enjoy it."

Mrs Hughes gave her quite a kindly look, and Gwen wondered if the fearsome housekeeper might be going soft in her old age.

"You know where I am," she told her, "If you have any problems. Any: learning your lines or understanding your character. I will help in any way I can. Alright?"

Gwen nodded.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes. Goodnight." 

"Goodnight, Gwen."

Gwen continued to make her way up the stairs, even more miffed than when she had set out. If theatrical goings-on brought out the rather forceful side in Lady Sybil, they brought out the human side of Mrs Hughes.

…**...**

"Oh...!"

Mr Branson seemed to lose the ability to articulate himself at a most opportune moment, otherwise Gwen thought they would have all been treated to quite a coarsely realistic piece of his mind. She had to admit she found the chauffeur quite funny when he got really agitated.

"What's the matter?" she asked, navigating round the servants' hall table to look at what had caused this reaction.

The completed cast list had appeared under the bells on the wall.

"Who are you, then?" she asked, scanning the list for his name.

"Feste," he replied, still looking rather aghast, "The piano accordion playing, singing fool."

Gwen frowned.

"I thought that was the part you auditioned for?" she asked.

"It was," he conceded, "I never thought in a million years that I'd get it."

His enduring disbelief caused Gwen to laugh again as he sank into a chair at the table.

"You shouldn't have shown such an aptitude for the piano accordion, then," she told him, "Why on earth did you audition for a part you don't want?" vaguely thinking that she hadn't even had to audition to end up in part she didn't want.

Branson said something about William having dared him to. Consulting the list again, Gwen spotted William's name too.

"Sir Andrew?" she asked a little incredulously, spotting his name next to Mr Carson's, "I'd never have thought William would play the drunken dancing idiot."

"He showed an aptitude for it," Branson informed her bleakly.

Surveying the rest of the list and remembering the words of encouragement she'd been offered the previous evening, she was very pleased to find Mrs Hughes' name beneath William's, next to the part of Maria.

"I see Hughsie's got one over on Miss O'Brien," she remarked with some satisfaction.

"Yes," Anna came into the servants' hall followed by Mr Bates and they both took seats near Tom, "And Miss O'Brien's none too happy about it."

"I bet she's not," Gwen replied, "She thought she was sure to get it too, what with the role pretty much being a lady's maid."

Anna did not disguise her grin very well.

"That's what she said. She seemed to think Mrs Hughes was being given preferential treatment because she was Lady Macbeth the last time. I imagine she was, and that's because she showed everyone that she really could act."

There was a murmur of agreement.

"But Miss O'Brien still wasn't having it," Anna continued, "She was complaining on and on to her Ladyship, and you know what her Ladyship's like, she seems to see a nicer side O'Brien than we all do, and I thought for a little I bit she might cave in and give her the part instead."

"Then what happened?" Gwen asked, now rather regretting that she hadn't looked in on the auditions.

Mr Bates smiled.

"Mrs Hughes told her that it was very rich her trying to take her part away from her, when it was Miss O'Brien's fault she'd had to play Lady Macbeth in the first place."

"And how did she take to that?"

"Not well," he continued, "What finished it was when her Ladyship deferred the decision to Lady Sybil. We all knew once it was in her hands that it would be Mrs Hughes. She can't stand Miss O'Brien by all accounts."

"I can't say I blame her," interjected Branson.

"Nor can I," Anna agreed.

Gwen, hovering by the list saw that there was something written on the other side and took it down to read.

"What does it saw?" Anna asked.

"It's from Mrs Crawley," Gwen reported, "Costume fittings start tomorrow. Tom, you're to bring the piano accordion."

His incredulity at having found himself playing a jester renewed, Branson once again resumed his loud expressions of disbelief.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	3. Chapter 3

**This is a chapter to skip if you're not a Carson/ Hughes fan. Because you really won't like it.**

They did not usually spend nights in each other's rooms; for one thing it was far too risky- all they needed was for Miss O'Brien to see the door go at the wrong moment and they were as good as discovered. Tonight, however, was one of those nights when they thought they'd just about earned it; and Charles came tiptoeing through the door at an hour reasonably late enough to expect that everyone else would be asleep. She was relieved to see him to say the least, she had not spoken to him properly since they had auditioned together. He closed the door firmly before either dared to speak.

"Well done," was the first thing he said to her, extremely sincerely, and, "Thank you. You've probably saved me from a good few awkward situations to say the least over the next few weeks."

She smiled, getting into bed, leaving space for him beside her.

"You know," she admitted, "For a few moments, I thought her Ladyship was going to cave in and let O'Brien do it. I really did."

Charles shuddered at the thought. Very well, it was only acting, but still. He'd really rather not have to act out falling in love with Miss O'Brien of all people. Judging by the look on Elsie's face, she completely sympathised with that notion. He got in bed beside her, hugging her to his chest.

"So it's another married couple for us, then," he remarked, "You aren't worried about that, are you?" he asked her, remembering her reaction to the _Macbeth_ casting.

"I think everyone who's likely to notice has already noticed," she pointed out, referring rather wryly to the nosey brigade, as she was coming to think of them.

"What about Miss O'Brien?" he asked her, a rather unsavoury notion occurring to him, "She's bound to keep her eye on you, now that you've taken _her _part."

"When does anyone with any sense really believe what O'Brien says?" she asked him, "You'll just have to make it look like you aren't enjoying kissing me."

He seemed quite alarmed at that prospect, which could have been flattering until he said:

"We have to kiss? On the stage?"

She nodded.

"I can't believe her Ladyship's letting that girl practically direct the play!"

She was about to ask what made him presume that it had been Lady Sybil's idea, but then again he was quite right, it had been. And she didn't think he was alone in that particular opinion either: having asked Mrs Crawley what the matter was this morning when she appeared in the house looking harassed, she had simply replied "Lady Sybil problems."

"She said something like it wasn't something she was under the impression we would mind doing," she caught sight of his aghast expression, and smiled slightly, "Don't worry, I've told Mrs Crawley to box her ears for me as soon as she thinks no one's looking."

They settled to lie quietly beside each other for a while. Neither wanted particularly to go to sleep.

"So, are you looking forward to our first music rehearsal?" he asked finally.

"Why do I have to be there?" she wanted to know, "Maria doesn't sing. They're just for you and Mr Branson to _try _to get your notes right." 

"Oh no," he told her, "You're going to them too. Or didn't Lady Sybil tell you? She wants you to do a duet with Mr Branson."

Elsie, infuriated by his typically male unwillingness to admit that he was wrong, reached for the copy of _Twelfth Night _lying on the floor beside her bed.

"See," she told him, showing him how she'd highlighted all of her lines already, "Maria _doesn't _sing."

"Director's decision," he informed her calmly, as if it was the final word. Which, regrettably, it probably was.

Elsie thought she might have to add herself to the list of people lining up to kill Lady Sybil the next morning.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, "I can't sing!"

"Well," he replied, looking a little awkward, "I wouldn't have wanted to act as if I was married to Miss O'Brien now, would I? I certainly wouldn't want to have to kiss her."

"I have a good mind to force you straight out of my bed, Charles Carson," she told him bluntly.

"Go to sleep," he replied, and then, because he couldn't help it, "Save your voice for your duet."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter was meant to turn up sooner than it actually did; apologies. **

"You can't do that!" Edith protested. Despite the number of threats various members of the household had made against her younger sister the previous night, it seemed that she was the first one to get there and confront her, "Mama! I can't believe your willing to let her do this to Sir Anthony!"

Sybil went on chewing her breakfast, looking supremely unconcerned. Perhaps she was aware, Mary thought, that she'd have to face much more threatening opponents than Edith before the day was out. Their mother, rather baffled by this whole thing- not unlike last time, really- turned to Edith.

"I don't see why not, dear," she told her calmly, "After he saw _Macbeth _Sir Anthony specifically expressed a wish to be included in our next production, if a part came up for him."

"Which it has," Sybil chipped in, "One that's perfect for him."

"Malvolio!" Edith spluttered, "A servant, who makes an utter fool of himself!"

Reaching for the teapot, Sybil gave her head a little jerk, as if to say "Yes. That sounds about right." Mary smiled at her toast, rather pleased that her little sister had turned out to have a sense of humour. Edith looked about ready to retort, guns blazing, but thankfully their mother had the presence of mind to spring a question on Sybil before she got the chance.

"So what are you doing today, dear?" she asked, "We'll have to get started with rehearsing soon, if we're really going to get it done in time for Twelfth Night."

"We'll be fine, Mama," Sybil assured her calmly, "I'm having a meeting with Mrs C about the costumes. I think Mrs Hughes might tag along too. And the young men are arriving at Crawley House tonight,"- that got Edith interested, despite her previous ardent defence of Anthony Strallan- "I thought we could start rehearsals first thing on Monday."

"That'll give us... four weeks," their mother calculated.

"Plenty of time," Sybil assured them breezily, "Plenty of time."

"Also, Sybil," Edith continued, with the air of having successfully spotted another problem, "you might want to explain to papa why he's been cast as a gardener. I gather he's rather upset about it."

"Yes, dear," their mother chipped in, "He _is _the Earl of Grantham, after all."

"The change of rank didn't do him any harm when he got to play a king," Sybil pointed out.

"You sound just like Rosamund," their mother told her. Mary was sure that probably wasn't meant to be a compliment.

"Have you asked Aunt Rosamund to come and help, Mama?" Mary asked.

"No," she admitted, "But you know your Aunt. If she wants to help, she will be here whether I invite her or not."

…**...**

"Ooh, yes!" Sybil exclaimed, taking a liking to the idea, "Let's do it in modern dress!"

Mrs Crawley looked fairly pleased that her proposal had been accepted and they both looked toward Mrs Hughes for approval. However, they were to be disappointed; the housekeeper didn't look at all enthused by the prospect of modern dress.

"What's the matter with that?" Mrs Crawley asked her friend indignantly.

"Nothing," Elsie replied, "I didn't say anything."

"You can tell by your face," Isobel replied, "You're incapable of hiding what you feel, you know, Elsie, you just have to watch you."

Sybil grinned a little; the friendships between women that she'd know growing up- her mother's and grandmother's friends- never quite got the knack of honesty like these two had.

"I didn't say anything," Mrs Hughes repeated, "I'm fine to do it in modern dress."

Sybil suddenly spotted what she thought might be the matter. As the housekeeper said modern dress she gestured slightly towards the clothes she was wearing then. That was the thing, Mrs Hughes was a servant, playing a servant.

"Don't worry, Mrs H," she assured her, "We'll make sure you get a new frock."

After this, Mrs Hughes seemed to warm considerably to the idea. Sybil saw Cousin Isobel raise her eyebrows across the table at her, it was rather endearing; a grown woman, as stern as Mrs Hughes was, being so fond of dressing up.

"Now," Sybil scanned the list she'd written down haphazardly after breakfast, "The costumes for this might end up a bit... odd this time," she informed them, "That's just the nature of _Twelfth Night_, really. For instance we need a bit of an eccentric costume for Sir Andrew, that's to say, William. Any ideas?"

"A straw boater and a pinstriped blazer?" Isobel suggested.

"Perfect!" Sybil exclaimed, "But where on earth will you get those, short of going into a shop and buying them new?"

"Matthew's got some he used to have to wear for school. I can take them out a bit to fit William; I'll be glad to finally get rid of them."

"Excellent."

"We'll need yellow stockings and cross garters for Malvolio," Elsie chipped in, remembering something she'd overheard Lady Edith ranting about earlier that morning.

"I'll ask Granny about those," Sybil replied.

Isobel and Elsie exchanged a puzzled glance; what on earth Lady Violet would be doing with such unorthodox legware escaped them both.

"That leaves the question of Gwen's hair," concluded Sybil.

"What about it?" Elsie asked, a little uneasily.

"Well, do we cut it off or not?" Sybil replied, as if it should be obvious.

"I think we ought to ask Gwen that," Isobel told her gently, "It is her hair after all."

"No," Elsie interrupted, decisively "You can't cut Gwen's hair off. Will all due respect, you seem to forget, Lady Sybil, that after this is over, Gwen will still be a housemaid. We can't have her wandering around the house with half a head of hair: it wouldn't look right."

Sybil was about to protest that she was simply proposing to cut Gwen's hair, not scalp her, when Mrs Crawley joined in on Mrs Hughes' side.

"Elsie's right, my dear. For one thing when would we do it? We could only turn Thomas into a ghost because it was time for the interval, and we can't very well have an interval between the first scene and the second. Tie it back or pin it up under a hat, but her hair will have to stay on her head."

…**...**

Quite some time later their meeting was still going on. Only more people had joined in and it had branched out into a _Twelfth Night _general purposes meeting. Lord and Lady Grantham had joined in, as well as Lady Edith and Charles- who had arrived to serve tea but had ended up being dragged into the meeting himself through background chatter with Mrs Crawley about his costume.

"But where is Sir Anthony going to sleep?" Lady Edith wanted to know.

There was a silence; all the people at the table being aware that she probably shouldn't be asking such a question.

"She's right!" evidently, Lady Edith had made a valid point somewhere along the line, as Mrs Crawley was now rather animated, "As we speak Matthew's gone up to help the footmen convert the bachelors' corridor into our dressing rooms like last time."

"That was very sweet of Cousin Matthew to offer to help them," Lady Grantham remarked, but no one replied. As Lady Violet would have doubtlessly reminded them if she'd been there, sweetness would get them nowhere.

"We could put him in the nursery," Lady Sybil suggested, half-heartedly.

"No!" Charles- as Elsie had known he would- proclaimed, "Lady Sybil, such a thing would not be proper. I could not allow it." 

"I suppose there's always Crawley House," tipping her head to gage Mrs Crawley's reaction, Lady Grantham made this suggestion with apprehension.

"My dear, Cora," Isobel addressed her politely but not without a definite note of terseness, "As of this evening Crawley House will be full to the brim as it is! There simply aren't enough rooms!"

"Oh, of course," her Ladyship corrected herself, "I forgot the young men are arriving tonight from Manchester."

"You could always send him to stay with Granny," was Edith's idea.

The eyes of the table swivelled unanimously towards her; and she seemed to realise what a stupid suggestion that in fact was.

"I wouldn't put him through it," Lord Grantham remarked dryly.

"I suppose," Isobel conceded, reluctantly, "If we asked James and George to share a room, we would be able to squeeze him in. Though I might well earn the nickname The Merry Matron of Downton around the village at this rate." 

"Well, it's not ideal," her Ladyship reminded them all, "But I suppose it's the only thing we can do."

"Short of throwing Mr Molesley out of his room," Elsie remarked lightly.

"And, knowing him, he'd probably let us," Isobel finished for her.

"Mrs C," Sybil began, "You could come and stay in the spare room on our corridor. Then everyone would have their own room."

"And leave my household in the hands of men?" Isobel replied incredulously, "You've a lot to learn yet, Sybil my dear. No offence intended to the present company, of course," she cast a hasty glance towards his Lordship and Charles.

…**...**

"Mrs Crawley!"

Isobel opened the door to meet the same exuberant bunch of overgrown school boys that had inhabited her house earlier that year, a little more chilly this time due to the weather, but still every bit as excitable.

"James!"

She shook his gloved hand as he passed her on his way into the hall and let him kiss her on the cheek.

"Christopher!"

Christopher had always liked her, and hugged her with both arms. She felt herself blush a little; she hadn't been able to help noticing that he was rather dashing.

"I live with you all of the time," she reminded Matthew as he came past her, raising his eyebrows a little when he did not receive his own enthusiastic greeting.

"And, George!"

"Good to see you, Mrs Crawley."

"It's good to see all of you," she told them, coming in away from the draft at the door as Molesley and Branson brought the cases from the motor car. She found herself settling on the second stair to talk to them just as she had done the last time to assert herself.

"I'm afraid it's going to be a bit of a squeeze this time around," she informed them, "We've got Sir Anthony Strallan joining us tomorrow, so I thought George and James might do me a great favour and share?" 

"Who's Sir Anthony Strallan?" James wanted to know, rather than objecting to his hostess' suggestion.

"Tall fellow who came to see _Macbeth_," Matthew told him, "He liked it enough to want to be in this one. He's playing Malvolio."

"So we must be very nice to him," Isobel finished for him, "I couldn't honestly say knew if Sybil's told him he's got to look like a fool on stage yet."

"Is he any good at tennis?" George enquired.

"Oh, not this time!" Isobel warned him impressively, remembering the antics in the garden the last time they visited, "We'll catch our deaths, and there'll be all kind of talk in the village if they know I've got a house full of men _again_!"

**Please review if you have the time. **


	5. Chapter 5

"Sir Anthony Strallan, ma'am."

The tall man she vaguely recognised from the Cora's party after _Macbeth _and several nameless dinners at the main house entered the sitting room. By his expression he looked a pleasant enough sort of a fellow. Isobel stood up to greet him.

"Mrs Crawley," he bowed his head towards her as she offered him her hand to shake, "It is a great pleasure to see you again."

"We spoke after the last production, didn't we?" she enquired politely. How on earth they'd managed that she'd like to know; in between bundling a soaking Mr Branson into the house without him being seen by any of the guest who were still hanging around. She sat down and indicated that he should do the same.

"We did. And I was so enchanted by the whole thing that I begged Lady Grantham for a part in this one."

Isobel chuckled.

"You might live to regret that," she informed him- wondering if he knew that he was playing Malvolio yet-, "I do hope you are comfortable here in our humble abode; you see the bachelors' corridor is somewhat packed to bursting at the moment."

"I've been told that it's been turned into a dressing room," he replied, "I could have stayed at home and travelled up every day, but Lady Sybil was quite adamant that I should come here. I do hope that I won't be any trouble."

"No, no trouble at all."

If she discounted the great hoo-hah of them all moving the spare bed around through narrow doorways they'd had this morning, it wasn't a lie. Originally, Molesley had Mrs Bird trying to help him, but they couldn't manage it and along the way had woken Matthew up, who had tried to help and only managed to wake the rest of them up. Trying to push this memory aside, with the attached wish it gave her to yawn, she searched for a new topic of conversation.

"Have you ever played in Shakespeare before?" she enquired politely.

"Only a brief stint as Polonius _Hamlet _when I wasat school," he replied cheerfully.

"Yes, I must say my experience is limited to playing one scene as the Gentlewoman. So you don't know _Twelfth Night _very well, then?"

"I'm afraid I have to confess my ignorance on the subject. Lady Sybil assured me that wouldn't be a problem, though. Apparently, I'm to be a chap called Malvolio."

So he does know, then, she thought. Only he doesn't know what the character does. She thought she might leave that to Sybil to explain for herself. She smiled, probably a little too merrily.

"I'm sure she'll be more than happy to explain everything to you at the rehearsal."

"I take it it's this afternoon?"

"Yes. The servants clean frantically in the morning and then drop everything at one o'clock."

"And they take part in the play as well as that?" 

"Oh goodness, yes!"

Lord Strallan looked mildly impressed by that.

"I'm afraid I should have dropped dead if I had to do all of that in one day," he remarked.

Isobel chuckled a little.

"No the servants quite hold the whole thing together."

"And what do you do, Mrs Crawley?" he enquired politely.

"I make the costumes."

"Do you now? And what might my costume be like?"

"You shall have to ask Lady Sybil, that," she told him hurriedly, "She'll explain it much better than I will."

She was damned if- just having established some kind of rapport with her house-guest- she was going to tell him he was going to spend most of the next prancing around in cross garters and yellow stockings.

…**...**

Act 1 Scene 3 was taking them forever. Not because Elsie, Charles or William could not understand it, nor because their portrayal of it was deficient in any way. That was partly the problem. Charles and William were so good at acting like utter fools when it was required of them that it was taking her Ladyship forever and a day to decide what degree of foolish and frivolous activity would be acceptable to be seen on the Downton Abbey stage. And Lady Violet was not helping to speed matters up any; several times she had "firmly rapped" the floor with her walking stick, though Elsie thought the words "irritably bashed" would serve much better.

Elsie looked at Charles in something like wonderment. She more than anyone knew there was much more to him that the stern and sober exterior he presented to the world; but she would never have expected he would be able to act like such a fool at the drop of a hat. But then again, Lady Violet had ordered him to. She watched with some considerable amusement as he played the piano very merrily- and badly- while William charged around the stage, "dancing".

"You aren't going to get away with it you know," Sybil, sitting beside her, informed her stoutly.

The half of this scene that Elsie was supposed to be in had been deemed suitable by Lady Violet; "Mrs Hughes gives it a nice controlled tone" she had barked, waving dismissively Elsie from the stage. She wasn't going to argue with that and went to sit in the seat next to Sybil- who had also been banished. As they were judging the scene with a view to avoiding too much frivolity, Sybil's opinions had been deemed unreliable in the extreme.

"What aren't I going to get away with?" Elsie asked.

"The singing," came the very blunt reply, "I don't care if you don't rehearse. You are getting up on that stage and singing regardless, so it's in your best interests to come to the next one."

In a half-hearted attempt to get out of the previous night's music rehearsal, Elsie had cunningly orchestrated a crisis with the linen rotation and insisted on being excused. She sighed; even now, Lady Sybil hadn't given making her sing on a stage up as a bad job.

"I'm sorry, my Lady," she told her, "But I just can't see myself managing it. My musical skills are as good as non-existent."

"My dear Mrs Hughes," for some reason Sybil was smiling rather too much- in a way that gave Elsie the distinct feeling of having been beaten, though she knew not yet by what means- "Don't think for another moment that you're going to get out of this. I have heard you in church."

This last statement was uttered with impressive finality, and not without a good reason. Being, as she was, the head of the female staff, Elsie was in the privileged position to occupy the pew beside the most lowly women in Lord Grantham's family; who were- in Lady Violet's view- Sybil then Mrs Crawley- in that order. As a result, occupying the pew beside her friend Isobel, Elsie often found it hard to resist the temptation to try to out-sing her. Being of a similar nature, Isobel found the challenge equally tempting. It often reached the sorry state where the two women abandoned their elaborate descants- and indeed the tune- and simply went for who could holler the words the loudest. The vicar, unused to such hearty enthusiasm from his congregation, took this ludicrous display for piety, and let it pass. Of course, one pew down from Isobel, Sybil heard every word. No, Elsie decided, she was not going to get out of this one. And Sybil knew it too.

"The next one's on Monday," she informed her, "It's Thursday now: you've got nearly four days to get used to the idea."

…**...**

Friday evening rehearsals always dragged on. There was a lot of sitting around, waiting for people to get things right that had to be got right by the end of the week. And, as was tradition, Elsie and Isobel had elected to wait around in the dressing rooms on the bachelors' corridor; their old haunt had re-established itself as a kind of friendly common room- so long as there wasn't too much noise.

"Poor Gwen," Isobel remarked, "Have they still got her downstairs doing that ridiculous duelling scene?"

"They must have. They said we'd be finished after that, and we aren't finished, are we?" Elsie let out a hearty yawn.

It was only just the end of the first week's rehearsals and she for one was ready to fall down and not get up off the ground again until it was time to go to bed. She glanced to the corner where any visitors they had usually sat. It was empty.

"How's the new lodger turning out?" she asked.

Isobel looked up from her stitching.

"Sir Anthony? Well, enough I suppose. I only wish he wasn't so grateful for everything we do. He keeps offering to help as well, it's extraordinary- rather like Matthew was when we first came here. I've had to tell him to stop it; it's all very well in front of Molesley, he won't hear of it. But I think Mrs Bird would have him in the kitchen peeling potatoes if she thought he was willing."

Elsie laughed.

"And he's not too miffed that Lady Sybil's effectively making him look like an idiot?"

"I think he was at first, but he's used to the idea now. But that's before he's seen these."

She held up the pair of yellow stockings she was stitch black cross garters on to.

"And how are the young men?"

Isobel smiled wearily.

"Keeping me young, I suppose. They were rather miffed that we don't have a billiards table; and I wouldn't let them all come storming back up here of an evening. So we all went to the Grantham Arms and bumped into young Branson. We didn't leave until closing time," she grinned a little, "Sir Anthony insisted that he buy the drinks, and we were sorted for the evening. What?" she noticed that Elsie had her eyebrows raised.

It had occurred to her that Lord Strallan seemed to be going to quite some lengths to keep his hostess happy, but she thought it best not to say anything for the moment.

"Nothing. Come on," she finally decided, getting up and putting her stitching down on her chair "I'm giving up now. Come and have a cup tea downstairs before you have to get back to your zoo."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	6. Chapter 6

**O mistress mine, where are you roaming?**

**O, stay and hear your true love's coming.**

**That can sing both high and low.**

**Every wise man's son doth know,**

**What is love? Tis not hereafter,**

**Present mirth hath present laughter. **

**What's to come is still unsure**

**In delay there lies no plenty**

**Then come kiss me sweet and twenty.**

**Youth's a stuff will not endure.**

**From _Twelfth Night_**

**That's the song they're going to sing. Again, there's an excellent rendition in the Trevor Nunn version.**

"Well, it's nice to feel included at any rate," Mrs Patmore cut at the joint of meat with particular energy, "You wouldn't think- would you- that this time next week it'll be Christmas Eve? Where, might I ask, have the butler and housekeeper got to? They're off doing a flaming play, that's where, while I'm left here to organise Christmas for the whole house!"

Anna thought it would be best not to interrupt the cook's ranting until she was spoken to. That was, however, not too far in the future.

"And does she leave me a key to the flaming store cupboard? No, she keeps the blessed thing with her, even when she's carrying on up there!" at this point Mrs Patmore waved the knife in the general direction of the ceiling, "Anna! Go and fetch me that key from Mrs Hughes. Tell her I need it to get some flour out myself- if she's too busy playing theatricals to do it for me!"

"I don't think I'd better do that, Mrs Patmore," she replied, hoping very much that she wouldn't have the knife thrown at her. As she had expected, she received a look that would have probably knocked Daisy dead, had it been aimed at her.

"Why ever not, girl?"

Considering the knack Mrs Patmore and Mrs Hughes had for not seeing eye to eye, they weren't half like each other when they were cross.

"She's having her costume fitted," Daisy supplied from the corner- in a brave attempt to come to Anna's rescue-, "They're doing the bodice today. I don't think she'd be very happy if Anna burst in when she's in her-..." she glanced around the room to see if there were any men present, discovered there were, and said it anyway, "Corset."

Anna was hard-pressed not to laugh at the look on the cook's face.

"I don't care if she's standing around in her flaming bloomers; I need some flour!"

"Who's got flaming bloomers on?" Mr Branson- half disguised as a jester- had appeared in the door, doubtlessly in search of food, and accompanied by Mr Bates.

"Mrs Hughes, apparently," Anna replied, trying not to catch Mr Bates' eye; his eyebrows were raised alarmingly.

"Do we really have to talk about old Hughsie's bloody bloomers?" came Miss O'Brien's voice from the table, "I'm trying to eat me tea here!"

Branson threw himself into the chair beside her, having acquired himself a sandwich.

"I don't care what we talk about," Mrs Patmore now looked nothing short of livid, rounding on Anna, "Stop your flirting at once and fetch me that key!"

Thinking she had probably best do as she was told, Anna headed for the door, hoping Mrs Patmore would not see as she grinned at Mr Bates.

…**...**

It was the second music rehearsal of the week and it was only Wednesday; it had been deemed something of a necessity. And they probably all should have been in bed by that time, but as the rehearsal had been called, anyone who had bits and pieces to finish off had come along to the drawing room. Sybil had let her hair down after dinner- quite literally- and was sitting under the grand piano watching Mr Branson play the piano accordion. In the corner, Mrs Crawley sat stitching away at the lining for Elsie's dress. Gwen had come along to learn a few of her lines, without keeping Anna awake by having the light on upstairs.

Elsie had told Charles to go to bed, it was twice as nerve-racking having to sing when he was there. She sat beside Isobel, waiting for Mr Branson to finish one of his many solos so they could practice their duet. Across the room from her she could see Sir Anthony Strallan. She did not know him very well, but he smiled pleasantly at her as they made eye contact. He had been watching over this way for quite some time, in fact. The rational part of her wanted to put it down to simply being tired- on his part- and gazing at any random point in the room; but she certainly had her doubts on that score. Beside her, Isobel stitched on, blissfully ignorant.

"What's Sir Anthony still doing here?" Elsie asked Isobel in a low voice, not to be rude, but to see if there was a simple explanation to this, "I didn't think he had any more lines to learn."

"He stayed to escort me home," Isobel informed her, not looking up, "So the boys could get back to the house. Or to the billiards table; whichever suits them best."

Her concentration on her stitching, she did not see the way Elsie's eyebrows raised. So there was a simple explanation; and it was the one Elsie had been drawn towards ever since Lord Strallan had first been mentioned by Isobel.

"Right," Lady Sybil concluded, "That should be fine, Tom, er, Mr Branson," she hurriedly corrected herself, "Mrs Hughes? I think it's time we had you now."

Dreading it a little even as she got up, Elsie made her way reluctantly towards the piano. Mr Branson- who she suspected Lady Sybil had told to be nice to her in order to relax her- grinned a little and gave a little toot on the piano accordion. She had done this only two days before and still wasn't comfortable with it at all.

"Whenever you're ready, you two," Lady Sybil told them.

It wasn't too bad, actually, all things considered, she only had a few lines to sing after all. She spent most of the time listening to Mr Branson crooning along to the piano accordion. They were pretty words, really, she just felt moderately foolish having to sing them in front of people and "staring rather wistfully at Mr Carson", Lady Sybil had instructed her, not without a little smirk. They would cross that bridge when they came to it, she was very thankful that she'd already sent him off to bed.

So instead of being wistful, she watched Sir Anthony Strallan. Who was himself, she noticed, being wistful. And still watching dear Isobel, who was inevitably ploughing on with her sewing, absolutely none the wiser. Elsie would be prepared to bet quite a substantial sum of money on what Lord Strallan was thinking at that moment. That confounded song, she thought, no wonder he's all dewy eyed. She felt a small pang on his behalf; if he were to press his suit- as it were- she couldn't honestly predict what kind of a reaction he'd get.

"Right, you two, I think that'll do for the moment," Sybil told them, once Elsie's throat was nicely raw, "Come on everyone, I think it's time we turned in for the night."

"Especially you, Gwen," Elsie called, noticing that the girl was still in the corner with her lines, and thinking of how exhausted she would be the next day.

As people gradually milled out of the room, Elsie saw Sir Anthony waiting by the door for Isobel. She saw her smile calmly as he helped her into her coat. Evidently, she was as clueless about the whole thing as Elsie had supposed.

…**...**

"It fits rather well, I think," Isobel decided, "Turn around, Elsie." 

Elsie obliged them with a half turn.

"Yes," Isobel decided, "That will do nicely."

There was a sharp sound of wood colliding from the next cubicle and the sound of Mr Branson fooling around making enthusiastic duelling noises. He had volunteered to help Gwen with the duelling scene, which she was still having trouble with. The curtain rippled as the pair came dangerously close to it.

"You look lovely, Mrs Hughes," Sybil told her happily.

"Are you sure about red?" Elsie asked, surveying herself in the mirror, "Are you sure it's not a bit too... racy?"

"I didn't know colours could be racy," Isobel remarked levelly, putting her sewing materials away in the box with finality, "And of course we're sure about red! And if you're not, I'd have thanked you to tell us _before_ we made the confounded thing."

"You look splendid," Sybil told her again, "Anyway, we need you to look ever so slightly alluring. Mr Carson's got to fall in love with you, remember?"

He managed that when I was wearing black, she thought, and a higher neckline than this. She turned again, looking from a different angle.

"Oh, for heaven's sake Elsie!" Isobel sounded quite exasperated, "You look marvellous! I only wished I could still look like you do."

Elsie was very tempted to tell her that she didn't need to, she was managing well enough to attract members of the opposite sex just as she was, but not having mentioned it before now, that remark could lead to an awful lot of confusion. And excitement on Lady Sybil's part.

Meanwhile, Lady Sybil herself was eyeing Elsie rather oddly.

"Hair down, do you think, Mrs C?" she asked.

"Yes," Isobel decided.

"No," Elsie told them firmly. Lines had to be drawn somewhere, "I'm not running round the stage like some great-..."

But she was cut off by a very enthusiastic Lady Sybil chasing her around the dressing cubicle, trying to loosen her hair. Clasping her hands over her head, she ducked out of the way.

"Mind the dress!" Isobel exclaimed frantically, "Sybil if you rip that...! It took me hours to finish! ELSIE! Be careful!"

"You are wearing you hair down!" Sybil proclaimed, seizing the housekeeper's shoulder just as she reached the curtain partition in between cubicles.

Elsie briefly wondered if she would ever get through one of these productions without being physically assaulted by this ridiculous child. Then there was the most terrific roar from the other side of the curtain. With a sudden flourish of movement, there was an almighty thump and a slapping sound as one of the wooden swords pushed the curtain forward and hit Elsie squarely in the face.

There was a horrible pause.

"Ouch."

At first most of her face went completely numb. Then she could feel it all too much.

"Mrs Hughes, are you-... Oh." Lady Sybil stopped mid sentence.

Isobel, having frozen ever since the thump, suddenly sprung into action.

"Get out of that dress," she commanded, "Quickly Elsie, before it gets spoiled."

Elsie but a hand to her stinging nose and found it was pouring with blood.

"I'll go and get a towel," Lady Sybil announced hurriedly, rushing out.

"Mrs Hughes," came Gwen's voice from the other side of the curtain, " Are you alright? I'm so sorry, Mrs Hughes. I didn't know you were standing there."

"Get out of that dress," Isobel repeated.

This time, she did not wait for Elsie to comply and simply took the material clean off her. Unfortunately, this was the moment that Gwen chose to come through to see if she could help, giving Mr Branson a clear view of the housekeeper standing there in half a dress and her winter petticoat. He averted his eyes in something like horror.

How Elsie did not pass out cold there and then, she would never know.

**I have decided that after this one there will be another in the _Merry Wives of Downton_ series. However much anyone likes it or dislikes it, there will be one more. I have had the best time of my writing life writing these fics. Updates will probably get more frequent so I can get them all finished before I have to go back to school in September. I have an idea for which play they might do, but it is most definitely in-the-works at the moment: nothing concrete. Anyone with ideas, drop me a line. Please review if you have the time, and thank you very much for reading. **


	7. Chapter 7

**A little bit of Carson/Hughes to keep us all going. Except if you don't like them; in which case, next chapter!**

"That bloody fool, Branson!"

Feeling well and truly battered as she was, Elsie couldn't help but smile at Charles when he got worked up. It was nice that he was protective of her. It was also quite funny, considering she knew he had no intention of doing anything other than grumble at her about it. Lying flat on her back, she made a minor adjustment to the impressive bandage Isobel had affixed to her nose- once it had been ensured that there would be no damage done to the wondrous dress.

"It wasn't his fault," she told him, watching him pace around her room in his shirtsleeves with the familiar sense of calming domesticity that arose on these occasions, "To tell you the truth, I think it was Gwen who actually did it. She was apologising nineteen to the dozen, poor child."

"I'm not talking about that," he told her sitting down on the bed beside her, "He had absolutely no business bursting in there when you were in your underclothes!"

Elsie laughed out loud, but had to stop when a spasm of pain shot through her face.

"He didn't burst in! And I was hardly in my underclothes!" she informed him, once it had faded back down, "At least I had my petticoat on. Anyway, he was a very gentleman and averted his eyes straight away."

Which is more than you would have done, she was tempted to add. He was watching her with concern.

"Are you sure that you're alright?" he asked, "You don't feel dizzy or anything?"

"I didn't know your nose controlled whether or not you felt dizzy," Elsie remarked, "Yes, I'm fine, stop dithering."

"I was specifically instructed to dither," he informed her, "Dear Isobel," he said it with particularly strained tone, "Suggested that I might not want to leave you alone for the night."

Elsie was not as perturbed as Charles that Isobel dared to make such a remark. She certainly wasn't surprised.

"Isobel likes to be impertinent," she explained, "Don't take it personally."

He laughed a little, brushing the loose hair off her forehead.

"I won't."

He leant forwards, lying briefly alongside her, and kissed her. At least, it was supposed to be brief. In the end, he discovered he didn't quite have the incentive to sit back up and ended up just curled up next to her, his arms then stretching to wrap around her waist. He heard her let out a sigh.

"I could quite happily not move until the morning," she admitted, "I could just stay here all night."

That was fine by him.

"How are you, Charles?" she asked, "I feel like I haven't spoken to you properly in days. I know I haven't been able to kiss you in a non-theatrical context. It's not quite the same with half the household watching."

He smiled against her face.

"I'd be a lot better if the youngsters would refrain from attacking you, my dear," he told her.

"No," she agreed, "It wouldn't do for me not to have a face by the end of this."

"I don't love you for your face," he informed her, "I never have."

That hadn't been what she was getting at, but it was nice to hear none the less.

"How are the piano sessions with William going?" she asked, "Enjoying yourself being a silly old fool?" 

"Thoroughly."

**Please review if the fancy takes you.**


	8. Chapter 8

**God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Stay Out of the Ladies' Way: Christmas Day Part 1.**

The day dawned crisp, bright and fresh, but that was probably the last thing on Isobel's mind as she hurried out through the kitchen of Crawley House- much to Molesley's surprise- and made her way towards the big house. Of all the days to... She couldn't quite believe it; she was astonished, she was flattered, she was all of a tremendous flutter. Her first priority had been to get out of her own house as quickly as possible before one of the boys spotted that something was wrong and asked any awkward questions. Her second was now to find Elsie as soon as possible.

Letting herself in through the back door of the main house, she clattered along to the housekeeper's sitting room. Finding it empty, she tried the butler's pantry.

"Is Elsie anywhere?" was the first thing she asked the mildly astonished Carson.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs Crawley," he greeted her rather sombrely, evidently put off by the frantic air she assumed she must be carrying.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Carson," she supplied quickly, then pressed on, "Is she upstairs?"

The butler inclined his head calmly.

"She is," he replied.

Without another word, Isobel closed the pantry door and headed off upstairs, leaving Carson all the more confused at her odd behaviour.

…**...**

Elsie could not deny that it was a bit of a shock when Isobel came bursting into her bedroom at eight o'clock in the morning on Christmas Day, of all days. True, she had hoped she might receive a call in honour of the occasion, but she'd had no idea that it would this early. Though perhaps it was the custom in Manchester.

Upon closer inspection, however, she saw that her friend looked rather ruffled; she was breathing deeply as if she had just run quite a distance, her cheeks were flushed and her expression was a little flustered. She stood up against the closed door, trying to get her breath back, hugging her hat. Obviously, it was not a time to remark on the unconventionality of the calling hours.

"Are you alright?" Elsie asked, frowning at her.

"I'm not sure," Isobel conceded, itching her brow a little with her glove, apparently considering her best approach, "Elsie? What impression do you get of Sir Anthony?"

Oh heck.

"Sir Anthony?" Elsie repeated, deciding it would be best if she feigned ignorance to what she'd guessed for the time being, "I'm not sure. He seems pleasant enough."

"You were talking to him on Sunday, weren't you?" Isobel prompted, "After church?" 

"Yes, I was. He asked how my nose was doing, and I told him it was much better. Then we were talking about the music rehearsals and he asked if I had a lot of experience of performing music," she grinned a little, "I told him no, apart from a few spirited renditions of "Donald where's yeh troosers?" at the pub when I was younger. Are you sure you don't want to sit down?" she asked, getting really rather worried about Isobel now.

Thankfully, she did take the hint then and sit down; descending to perch on the edge of the bed with an air of collapse about her.

"Why do you ask?" Elsie wondered, sitting down beside her.

At first there was no reply, but then Isobel began haltingly:

"Sir Anthony's-...There's something...I'm not quite sure how to say this. It's rather awkward... I... It's almost unbelievable!"

Elsie nodded calmly.

"There's a trick I use if one of the girls has something awkward that she needs to tell me," she advised, "I have her say it in the most formal way she knows how to. Sometimes it sounds so ridiculous that we both end up having a good laugh at it."

Isobel appeared to consider it, and then to stir herself.

"Very well then, I'll try that."

She took rather a deep breath.

"Anthony Strallan," she announced delicately, "Has come a-wooing."

Elsie paused, making up her mind once again to stay on the safe side of things, in case she had managed to get the- spectacularly- wrong end of the stick.

"Lady Edith?" she prompted.

"No, Elsie, not Edith. Me. He has asked me to marry him!"

It occurred to Elsie to say "What did I tell you?"- but then she remembered that in fact she hadn't told her, she hadn't voiced her suspicions at all. The sentiment obviously showed in her face, however.

"You knew?" Isobel asked incredulously.

"I suspected," Elsie corrected her.

They were quiet for a few seconds; disbelief radiating from Isobel and a sense of inevitability from Elsie.

"What am I going to do?" Isobel asked in a small voice.

"That rather depends on what you want to do."

"What options do I have?" it was now that Isobel truly looked panicky, and Elsie understood why she'd felt the need to come to her, "Elsie...please, advise me!"

"Well," she began racking her brains for a second, "I don't suppose there's anyone who could decline their permission, is there?"

"Not short of telling Matthew to take great offence. Or have Dr Clarkson decline on the grounds of my health!"

"We could go with the first one," here Elsie began to think aloud, "And we could say that he wants to thrash Lord Strallan to within an inch of his life for insulting his mother!"

The look on Isobel's face told her that young Mr Crawley wasn't likely to do anything of the sort; in fact- if she was to make an inference- he would find the whole thing really rather amusing.

"Why are you assuming that I'd want to say no?" Isobel asked .

"Because it's safest to," Elsie answered smartly, "It's a lot easier to accept someone gracefully than it is to reject them. Why?" she asked, what Isobel's question implied just striking her, "Do you mean to accept him?"

Isobel did not answer straight away.

"I never thought I would marry again," she confessed, "Not after Reginald died," she fiddled absent-mindedly with the wedding ring, which she still wore on her finger, "Then again, I don't suppose I ever thought I should be asked again. And Lord Strallan is such a nice man."

"How did he do it?" Elsie asked cautiously, her curiosity getting the better of her, "What did he say?"

"He said that in the time he's known me-..."

"All of two weeks," Elsie reminded her.

"Yes," Isobel smiled a little and continued, " The gist of it was that he'd come to form an admiration for me, and wouldn't I like to get married? I seem to recall he said something about neither of us getting any younger," she added with a hint of indignation about her.

Elsie shook her head at this last.

"Typical man," she muttered.

This at least made Isobel chuckle a little before she resumed her contemplative frown.

"And what about poor Edith?" she wondered, "How can I marry the man she's got her heart set on?" 

"As much as I probably shouldn't say this, she'll find someone else to hang on to. She always does," Elsie sighed, "Anyway if Sir Anthony's set his heart on you instead of her, I would have said that there's very little either of you can do about it. In the end the question is, what do you want to do, Isobel?"

It was plain to see from the look on her face, that she hadn't the faintest idea what she wanted. Elsie very much doubted that she had fully processed this morning's events. Smiling sadly, Isobel sniffed and reached out, taking Elsie by the hand.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Elsie," she told her, "I didn't think for a second that my barging in on you on Christmas Day might be rude. It was the first thing I thought of to do; come and see you."

Touched by that notion, Elsie gave Isobel's hand a little squeeze.

"I dare say I would have done exactly the same," she assured her.

"Has Mr Carson ever asked you to marry him?" Isobel wondered, "Officially, that is," bearing in mind that those two were more married than most husbands and wives were.

"Yes," Elsie replied, "And I him, once. Still, we never got round to it."

Isobel chuckled.

"You two are rather extraordinary," she offered by way of explanation.

"We do our best. Am I to take it that no one else knows? About your own rather extraordinary proposal?"

"No one," Isobel confirmed, "And I think it would be best that way for now. Especially-..."

"Sybil," Elsie finished for her.

Isobel leant forward and kissed her friend on the cheek.

"Thank you, Elsie."

Elsie sighed in half-genuine exasperation and wonderment at the turn of events that seemed to have engulfed them both so suddenly.

"Happy Christmas, Isobel."

**Please review if you have the time. **

**I think the last in the series is going to be based on _The Merry Wives of Windsor._ But that's still a maybe.**


	9. Chapter 9

**It seems I have led you all up the garden path somewhat; it's not going to be _The Merry Wives of Windsor. _Read the chapter to find out what it's going to be. Syblime thought up the Sybil and the mistletoe idea, not me.**

**Miss O'Brien Puts Her Foot Down; Lady Violet Puts her Foot Down; Lady Edith Puts Her Foot Down and Isobel Gets the Distinct Feeling of Being Trampled On. Everybody Else Plays Charades: Christmas Day Part 2.**

She would have been a bloody fool to pass on a chance like that, Sarah O'Brien told herself as she made her way quickly down towards the main part of the house. And it had paid off, hadn't it? People didn't move as furtively as she had seen Isobel Crawley do unless there was information well worth knowing involved. The fact that she was jumping into Mrs Hughes' bedroom on Christmas morning had been suspicious enough to get her interested. Why more people didn't take up eavesdropping she would never know. Who'd have thought it- that old wench getting a proposal?

And such a piece of gossip couldn't have come to her at a better time. But she would use it well, she thought. Information like that couldn't just be frittered away by spreading it round the kitchens, it was far more valuable. Better take it straight to the centre of things. It would serve her right- and old Hughsie. She had been sure that she had been passed over for the part of Maria because those two were getting so friendly, and now that seemed very likely indeed.

She reached her destination, paused for a second then knocked on the door and entered.

"Merry Christmas, m'Lady."

Lady Edith was sitting up in bed. She frowned a little when she saw who it was.

"Merry Christmas, O'Brien. What are you doing up here?"

"Anna's a bit busy downstairs. I thought you might want to go straight down for breakfast, it being Christmas and all."

The invention was rather a feeble one, but she seemed to consider it nonetheless.

"You know, I might do just that."

Lady Edith got out of bed, put on her slippers and pottered around the bed in Sarah's direction.

"Why do you look like that, O'Brien?"

"Like what, m'Lady?"

"Like something's upset you. There isn't anything the matter, is there?"

Now they were going somewhere.

"Now you say it, m'Lady, I have just heard something rather disturbing."

"What?"

No, she didn't sound anywhere near interested enough yet. Sarah gave a sigh.

"I don't think I'd like to say, m'Lady. It might be rather upsetting. Perhaps to you in particular."

"Oh?"

That was better.

"M'Lady, if someone had done something dishonest- betrayed your trust, like- would you want to know? Or would you rather not find out about it?" 

"What's Mary done?" Lady Edith asked, sounding panicked, "Tell me, O'Brien, at once!"

"It wasn't Lady Mary," Sarah told her.

This piece of information- purely through how unlikely it was- only seemed to rattle her further.

"You see, m'Lady. It's Sir Anthony. And Mrs Crawley."

…**...**

"_Romeo and Juliet_?" Sybil asked incredulously, indignation flooding her features, "But Granny, we can't do that, it's so insipid! And you've always said you don't approve of what those two got up to!"

Her Grandmother sniffed impressively as she cut her turkey with a great sense of dignity.

"At least I know what happens," came the grave reply, "There won't be any nasty surprises. Not like this time."

Sybil doubted that she was the only person at the table thinking about the cross-dressing element at that moment.

"But I've already chosen the play," Sybil implored her.

"Oh, yes? And what was it to be?"

"_The Merry Wives of Windsor_."

"Then it's just as well I'm stepping in," Granny declared, "Absolutely steeped in- dare I say it at dinner?- innuendo."

It was most unfortunate that, in her general ignorance of Shakespeare as a whole, Granny happened to know that.

"You always said you just know the bare bones of Shakespeare!" Sybil insisted, even more indignant.

"I was very particular about which bare bones I knew."

"But I'd already cast it," Sybil continued- surprising no one with this last confession-, "Mrs Hughes and Mrs Crawley would be just wonderful as Mistress Page and Mistress Ford!"

Granny cast Cousin Isobel a dismissive look that seemed to say "the less said about that, the better".

"I think _Romeo and Juliet_ is an excellent idea, Lady Grantham," Sir Anthony told her. He seemed not to notice the look he received in reply. It couldn't have been clearer to everyone else that Granny did not need his opinion to know where her convictions lay.

"And it'll give Edith the chance to try directing," Cora offered, trying to find a positive side to this, turning to her daughter "I know you'd like that, dear."

"Just so long as you don't let her choose the cast," Mary remarked, "Forgive me, Sir Anthony, but I think you'll agree you're rather past playing Edith's Romeo."

An awful silence followed the cutting remark. Sybil half expected Edith to leave the table hurriedly in outrage; and, given the way their mother was looking fit to kill in Mary's direction, she would have probably been forgiven it. Instead, she remained relatively composed, blinking slowly.

"Perhaps, for mine. But not, I dare say, for someone else's."

And here she looked straight at Cousin Isobel. Thinking what a ridiculous thing Edith was implying, Sybil almost laughed out loud; until, that is, she saw Cousin Isobel's face. She was staring, quite calmly at her dinner, not saying a word but looking very much as if she would like to vanish from sight. The whole room seemed to fix upon her, weighing up the implications of what had been said and her passive reaction to it. She had not by any means moved to deny it. In the background someone gasped before it all fell quiet. The silence almost buzzed. Though Edith's face was largely blank, the tiny lines of her skin revealed a deep-seated mutiny.

"I must say, it's a sorry state when one's maids show more loyalty than one's cousin."

No one quite knew what to say. This had emerged completely out of the blue- for Sybil at least- and the smallest word in the wrong direction could have enormous consequences.

"How about charades?"

Cousin Matthew was choosing a very odd strategy with which to save the day.

"What was that, Matthew?" Cora was talking in a louder voice than necessary, trying desperately to draw everyone's attention away from the way Cousin Isobel's cheeks were now glowing scarlet. Across the table from her Sir Anthony's countenance seemed to have taken a similar turn.

"A game of charades? After dinner?"

"Oh goodness, yes!" Cora exclaimed, too enthusiastically, "Mama, don't you think so? Mama? Granny? VIOLET!" she finally snapped.

"What?" Granny asked, ignoring Cora's impertinence altogether. Her voice had a distant tone to it, as if she wasn't really listening at all. She had fixed poor Cousin Isobel- still staring at her food- with a look of such disdainful contempt as Sybil had ever seen, and would not take her eyes off her.

"We're thinking of charades. After dinner."

"Very good."

"The servants are going to join in."

"Excellent."

Sybil thought she saw what her mother was trying to do.

"And I'm going to marry Cousin Matthew tomorrow morning."

"If you must." 

"Oh, Granny, do please listen to them!" Mary implored, "Before you say something you don't mean."

At last, Granny seemed to come back down to earth, though she was still eyeing Mrs Crawley very suspiciously, as if she carried something contagious.

"Sorry, Mary dear," she apologised, "I can't think what came over me. Although," she bristled back towards her usual state, "I dare say, it was nothing like as serious as what came over other people," here she threw a withering look at Sir Anthony, "I expect _that_ was sheer madness."

To give Cousin Isobel her due, no matter what she turned out to have done- and Sybil would be sure to quiz Mrs Hughes thoroughly on the subject as soon as she could get away and find her- she showed remarkable fortitude in the face of Granny's extraordinary disdain. It felt rather as if she and Sir Anthony were criminals waiting to go on trial.

The mood at the table did not quite recover throughout the rest of Christmas dinner.

…**...**

The game of charades deteriorated rapidly. This was particularly due to the young in the party. In a truly gallant attempt to disguise her embarrassment- which Isobel would never quite forget- her young lodgers threw themselves into the activity with almost indecent enthusiasm, much to everyone's entertainment; except Cousin Violet who was still eyeing her suspiciously and Edith who was refusing to acknowledge her existence. Things only continued to plummet further into the realms of madness when the servants arrived to join in- much to Violet's disapproval, but she had after all agreed to it however absent-mindedly. The problem was that everyone seemed to act out their own character from _Twelfth Night_ and when they ran out of those started impersonating each other's. The silver lining to this great thunder cloud of a Christmas Day was that she got the chance to talk to Elsie, hovering as she was outside the drawing room door to watch the game without appearing to indulge this frivolity.

"So much for keeping things quiet," was all she found she could say at first.

Elsie looked at her very plainly.

"You thought it was me, who told her, didn't you?" she asked.

Isobel couldn't lie.

"Yes," she admitted, "At first. Well, what else was I supposed to think?" she added more than a little defensively.

"You haven't ever lived in a house like this, have you?" Elsie asked not unkindly, "The walls have ears."

"I'm sorry," Isobel apologised, "I should have had more faith in you."

"Don't worry about it," Elsie told her, "Like you said, what were you supposed to think? You'll know next time."

"Strike me if there's going to be a next time!" Isobel hissed a little, "You'd have thought I'd killed someone, the way everyone's reacting. I'd like to remind them all that it was him who proposed to me and not the other way around!"

Right on cue, Lady Edith- passing them on her way back into the room- threw her the first glance she'd given her since lunchtime. An utterly filthy one.

"Come on," Elsie told her, "Let's go outside."

Bearing in mind the habit the walls had for hearing- and repeating- things they were never meant to get hold of, they were silent until they emerged onto the frosty drive.

"Has everyone taken it as badly?" Elsie asked cautiously as they wandered down the drive.

"Oh goodness, no! Mary thinks it's wonderful. I'm surprised she hasn't sent me flowers and a card of congratulation."

"I had Sybil questioning me earlier on," Elsie admitted, "She seemed to think- rightly, of course- that I would know what was going on. I didn't tell her, of course," she added hurriedly, "She didn't seem cross with you."

"Who do you think might have told her?"

Elsie snorted rather bitterly.

"It would be unprofessional of me to say. But I know who my money's on."

Isobel smiled at her shoes.

"There's nothing quite like getting the family together at Christmas."

"Except a bomb," she commented wryly, "Isobel? I shouldn't really ask this but I will anyway," Isobel stopped chuckling, "Has this helped you make your mind up any?"

They both stopped walking. In thought, Isobel threw a haphazard glance back at the house.

"Maybe," she was smiling a little.

They decided to go back inside, it was getting much colder as the night drew in in earnest. By the time they had returned to the drawing room, charades had been abandoned for good and everyone was dancing. Over from where they rearranged themselves in the corner Elsie could just about make out Lady Sybil dancing with Mr Branson.

"Let them," Isobel told her softly, "It's the one night of the year they'll get the chance."

"It's not that," Elsie replied in a whisper, "I happen to know that Lady Sybil has strategically placed mistletoe around the house."

"Ah."

"So watch yourself," Elsie advised, "Or you might end up in even more trouble."

For what felt like the first time that day, Isobel grinned.

"I don't think that would be quite possible."

"Mrs Crawley?"

They turned in their chairs to see Anthony Strallan behind them. Elsie saw Isobel throw a cautionary glance in Lady Edith's direction. Lord Strallan evidently saw it too for he continued rather nervously.

"I was wondering if you'd like to come for a walk with me," he fidgeted a little, "I would very much like to apologise for all the trouble I've caused you today."

Isobel smiled up at him.

"I should like that," she told him, "If you'd be so good as to fetch our coats, I'll meet you downstairs."

Once he had gone, Elsie thought it would not only be acceptable but almost prerequisite to raise her eyebrows at her friend.

"Stop it," Isobel told her bluntly.

"Watch out for mistletoe," Elsie repeated.

**Please review if the fancy takes you. **

**And, if I might just share with you a conversation that took place between my Grandmother and I about Downton:**

**Me: I like the housekeeper.**

**Grandma: Her who's friendly with the butler?**

**Me: Yes. I personally think there's something going on between them.**

**Grandma: Yes, me too.**

**My Grandmother is a Carson/Hughes shipper. That made my day. **


	10. Chapter 10

**The Evening of the 28th of December. Mrs Hughes Get Silly, Mr Crawley and Gwen Feel the Need for a Duel and Lady Grantham Doesn't Know What to Do.**

It was normal, even in a house the size of Downton, for there to be something of a low period between Christmas and New Year when no one felt like doing much and so drooped around the house feeling a little sorry for themselves; eating the remains of edible Christmas presents and wearing their best clothes to cheer themselves up. But, as Lady Sybil- hands on hips- stoutly reminded them, there was no time for any such thing this year. If they wanted to feel sorry for themselves they would just have to wait. It was a wonder- Thomas grumbled one evening- that she had seen fit to allow them to have a Christmas at all.

The question of whether or not Isobel would marry Lord Strallan, however, did not seem to be able to wait, to the point where the household simply seemed to take it upon themselves to make her answer for her. As early as Boxing Day it was widely assumed that they were formally engaged. In fact, the decisiveness of the household seemed to help Isobel along a little; Elsie noticed that increasingly she was making wistful little remarks about "the future". She had now taken that to mean "when I get married". It was made perfectly clear to Lady Edith- both by her mother and younger sister- that if she wanted to hold a grudge she would do it after the curtain call and not before.

And so, on the evening of the 28th of December everyone participating in Act 2 Scene 3 found themselves up very late, trying desperately to get it right. Lady Violet had long since thrown the towel in and gone back to the Dower House, complaining of a tremendous headache, but Cora and Sybil remained bravely to direct. Isobel loitered.

"Now," Sybil announced wearily, "While Tom and Mr Carson are singing away- you're doing that very nicely by the way, Carson- and Sir Anthony is watching them disapprovingly- stand in a disapproving stance, please, Sir Anthony- I want you, Mrs Hughes, to peak at his legs."

A flush of near mortification shot through Elsie. Sybil might just be pushing her luck here. Kissing was one thing. Ogling was another altogether.

"Mr Carson's or Sir Anthony's?"

"Sir Anthony's."

The mortification was replaced by something so much more sinister: glee. Elsie looked immediately at Isobel, trying not to laugh at the expression on her face; evidently she was experiencing the mortification now.

"Do you want me to do it in an exaggerated way, m'Lady?" she asked, biting her lip immediately the words had left her mouth.

"Well, the audience needs to be able to see you do it," Lady Grantham replied, "You're not just doing it for the good of your health, are you?"

It was most unfortunate that at that moment Elsie just happened to catch Sir Anthony's eye and they both burst out laughing.

"Sybil, dear," Isobel's voice sounded a little strained, "What exactly is the point of this particularly hilarious stage direction?"

The enforced sternness in her tone had little effect on the two on stage. Carson glowered a little from beside Mr Branson- who was playing the piano quietly and singing a comical song to himself. Sybil turned to explain the necessity of looking at these specific legs while on stage Elsie and Lord Strallan sorted themselves out. As they should have predicted, the answer had something to do with yellow stockings. Everything did these days. This seemed to perk Isobel up a little bit.

"They're ready now that you mention it," she informed them.

Sybil clapped her hands a little in excitement.

"Do you have them with you?"

"They're upstairs in the bachelors' corridor."

"Sir Anthony," Sybil addressed him as if to rally him for a great mission, "Go and get your stockings on."

"I'll come and show you where they are," Isobel got up and followed him out of the room. She deliberately avoided Elsie's gaze.

…**...**

"I'm sorry, Gwen," one room down, Matthew and Gwen were trying to get one of their many scenes together sorted, "I just feel that it would help if we had Branson here too. It's hard having to say my lines and sing his at the same time. I'm sorry I'm being so useless tonight. I suddenly feel unconscionably tired."

Gwen smiled shyly. It was still a bit awkward to have one of her employers apologise to her for something rather than feel as if it should be the other way around.

"It's alright," she told him, she had only just got out of the habit of calling him Sir- as he'd asked her to for the time being at least- every time she opened her mouth, "We're all getting that way a bit and I expect you've got a lot on your plate at the moment."

He smiled rather wearily, leaning up against the piano lid a little.

"You could say that, what with my mother and her sudden... popularity, shall we call it? Or lack of, I suppose, where Cousin Edith's concerned."

"We were all pleased to hear of it. If you don't mind me saying so, we think they make a good match."

"That's very kind of you to say so, Gwen. I'll tell my mother you think so. I'm sure she'll be very grateful."

There was a pause, both looked at their respective scripts.

"How's the duelling coming along?" he asked.

"I've not taken anyone's face off since Mrs Hughes'."

Matthew laughed.

"Some improvement, then?"

"You could say so."

"You know, I can't help feeling you could do with practising with William instead of Branson. It's him you do the scene with, after all."

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea."

"Why not?"

Gwen mumbled something about it not only being Mrs Hughes there'd been a bit of an accident with.

"Then all the more reason you should both have a bit of a practice. Let him get used to it. Where is he now?"

"He's next door with all the rest of them. They're practising that scene where Mr Carson sings the song about not dying."

"So William will be dancing around in a curtain, then?"

"I expect so."

…**...**

When they arrived in the next room, it was in something of a state of uproar. Or perhaps that was just the nature of the scene they were doing- more than likely; this was, after all, _Twelfth Night_, as Sybil was fond of reminding them. At any rate, Mr Branson was bouncing up and down on a piano stool and Sir Anthony had his famous stockings on underneath a particularly flamboyant dressing gown that Mrs Crawley and Lady Sybil had found while going through the backs of wardrobes.

"Hello Mother," he nodded to the assembled crowd, "Gwen and I were wondering if we might borrow William? We want to try some duelling." 

"Oh heck." This last came from Mrs Hughes, as she stepped hurriedly behind Mr Carson.

Lady Grantham surveyed the stage.

"I suppose we could let you have him," she replied, "He hasn't many lines in this scene and he can shout them well enough from the other side of the room."

William got down from the stage, disentangling himself from his curtain, and joined Matthew and Gwen at the other side of the room.

"Now," her Ladyship turned back to the performers on the stage, "What on earth are we going to do about this?" 

"Quite frankly, Mama, I don't see the problem," Sybil told her flatly, "It's supposed to be frivolous. That is the point of it."

Lady Grantham still looked uneasy.

"I don't know, dear. Oh I do wish your Grandmother hadn't gone home! I didn't think I'd ever say that, but it's true. Every time I say something I only worry that we'll come back to it tomorrow and she'll tell me it's too flamboyant or frivolous or frolicking or any other word beginning with F that she could care to use!"

Isobel got up to stand beside her.

"You know, Cora, I do believe you let Cousin Violet get to you too much."

This remark, while heavy with truth, seemed not to go down too well with Lady Grantham. It was all right for Isobel, she had really thrown caution to the wind and was getting married without Violet's blessing. The rest of them still had to keep their heads down, even if she didn't.

"Your Ladyship, would you mind if I got off the stage?" Elsie asked from the background, "I'm not doing anything up here except looking at people's legs."

"Yes, and I think you've had quite enough of that!" Isobel told her, moving to help Elsie descend from the stage as quickly as possible.

"No, Mrs Hughes," her Ladyship told her, a look of long-suffering on her features, "I think we ha best move on to the next part. So, Sir Anthony, you go off. From Line 96, then, Mrs Hughes."

"Go shake your ears!" Elsie exclaimed with great, and improperly vigorous, venom.

"That's line 96?" Matthew exclaimed taken aback by this strange turn of phrase, never having seen this scene rehearsed before.

"Shh! Matthew!"

"Sorry, Mother."

There was a pause.

"William," Sybil called, "It's your line!"

Unfortunately William was now duelling so enthusiastically with Gwen at the back of the room that neither appeared to hear. To give credit where it was due, Gwen had improved a lot since the nose incident. However, this was the final straw that caused the strain to truly show in her Ladyship.

"I give in!" she exclaimed, "I admit that without your grandmother I have no idea if what I'm doing is right!"

"Cousin Isobel's right, Mama," Sybil told her, not looking too concerned by her mother's distress, "Granny doesn't know everything. No matter whether or not she thinks she does."

"It's not only that," Cora continued, "We're trying to do a hundred things at once, trying to get everything right. And not managing to. I feel nearly dizzy."

"Shall I go and fetch Miss O'Brien?" Elsie asked.

"And on top of that, my cast keep on trying to marry each other!"

It was time, they thought, to call it a night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Isobel Encounters a Snag; Elsie is Still Silly and A Party is Attended.**

It was New Year's Eve evening. Downstairs- under Mrs Patmore's rather liberal jurisdiction- there were vague plans for a party to be held. But at the moment it seemed as if there would be comparatively few in attendance; there was one scene left to sort out- Act 3 Scene 4. They had certainly chosen the wrong scene to leave to the end, Elsie reflected; it was a killer. It could have quite easily been four separate scenes and included most of the principal cast. Thus all three of their esteemed directors felt the need to be present- Sybil in fact was jumping all about, acting as well- and most of the cast joined Isobel in her loitering.

"Mrs Hughes, come down from that stage, you're fine!" Lady Violet barked at her. She had truly mastered the art of giving praise in a thoroughly unflattering way. Elsie did as she was told and took up her seat beside Isobel.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked, looking at her friend's face.

"Nothing," Isobel replied, her eyes snapping away from the stage, whither she had been gazing in a rather preoccupied manner.

"Don't worry," Elsie told her, in a combination of putting two and two together and seeing right through her, "Just because he has to act as if he's madly in love with Lady Sybil, doesn't necessarily mean he is. She is very pretty but it's your door he came hammering on, after all. It's you he came a-wooing," she added, not quite able to resist the temptation of reminding Isobel of her own turn of phrase.

Isobel looked at her as if she was talking nonsense; which only acted to assure her that she wasn't. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, watching Sybil look comically shocked and Sir Anthony look ridiculous.

"I'll miss you," Elsie said suddenly, "I know I shouldn't really say it, but I will."

"My dear, what in Heaven's name are you talking about?" Isobel asked her, perplexed.

"Well, you'll be getting married fairly soon. "Not getting any younger" after all," she threw Sir Anthony's words in too for good measure.

"Why should that change anything?" Isobel wanted to know, half-laughing at the lunacy of this conversation, "I'm simply taking on another person, not renouncing all of my other friends!"

"So you're staying at Crawley House?" Elsie asked, surprised.

"Of course. Who else will Matthew have?"

"And you've discussed this with Sir Anthony?" Elsie prompted her.

"Not exactly," said Isobel's face. She hadn't even considered that this might mean leaving Downton; lodged as he was at present in her house she had pictured them living there. Of course, now that she considered it, Anthony would not be able to leave his estate; she knew the work that went into keeping it running. If she was to marry him, she would _have _to leave Downton.

Elsie was watching her with some concern. Isobel suddenly felt very foolish.

"Of course, I shall stay here," she insisted brusquely, perhaps a little too brusquely to be taken entirely seriously, "Downton is my home now. I shan't leave it."

Trust Elsie to look thoroughly unconvinced.

"Mrs Hughes! Do pay attention!" The rather shrill call came from Lady Violet's direction, "You're needed on stage!"

Knowing where her duty lay, Elsie got up and hurried back to her place, glowering a little at Lady Violet, leaving Isobel to her very turbulent thoughts.

…**...**

"Mrs Hughes," Lady Sybil surveyed her with a stern eye, "Please, please, try to say the line without laughing."

A good hour later Lady Violet had once again despaired with the lot of them and it was left to Sybil and her long-suffering mother.

"I'm not laughing at all, m'Lady," Elsie replied, trying not to sound insolent.

"But you look about ready to explode with mirth," Lady Grantham informed her in an unconvincing imitation of calmness, "What might I ask is so funny? All you have to say is "No, I warrant you he will not hear of godliness". By the end of the sentence you're positively squeaking it."

Else bit her quivering lip.

"Lord Strallan's serious face is just too serious."

And with that, the both of them collapsed into laughter again. Really, she thought, if she was to lose Isobel's company it was to someone who evidently had quite a ready sense of humour. Heavens, she really should warn him that he would need it! Charles coughed in the background.

"My Lady, do you think we could move on?" he asked.

Lady Grantham took a deep breath.

"I think that could be an excellent idea, Carson. Mrs Hughes! Oh for goodness sake, Mrs Hughes pull yourself together!"

"Sorry, m'Lady."

At this point she caught Charles' eye. He gave her a look that was meant to be stern. Good grief, compose yourself, woman!- she thought.

"Now," her Ladyship took another deep breath, "We'll move on. We need William, Robert, Mrs Hughes and Carson."

Oh no, Elsie thought- bearing in mind that she was going to have to try desperately not to laugh- not this part. Sir Anthony got down from the stage and took a seat beside Isobel. The four of them stood on the stage waiting to be directed or to commence with their lines.

"William, here's the letter," Sybil handed him the required prop, "Now, while Carson reads it out I want you to look as if you're getting ready for a duel, but- as Sir Andrew would- do so rather foolishly. Lunge about a bit, wave the sword around a touch too wildly and so forth. Is that clear?" 

"Very good, m'Lady."

"Very well. And William, make your entry very flustered, quite flamboyant," here she shot a cautionary glance at her mother, but Lady Grantham had apparently not heard."

"Right, all in your own good time."

William hurried behind the curtain; only to emerge again doing the most spectacular lunges Elsie had ever seen in her life. By the look that Lady Sybil gave him, she surmised that he had started his duelling warm up a little bit too early. From where she stood, apparently conversing with Charles and his Lordship, she could see Sir Anthony and Isobel behind the directors, silently collapsing as they split their sides with mirth. She bit her lip hard.

His Lordship suddenly sprung into action with; "More matter for a may morning!"

She was fine, Elsie told herself, if she only didn't look directly at William with that ridiculous sword and his strange exercises she could get through this without falling over and crying with laughter.

"You're enjoying this," she muttered to him under her breath as he passed Charles the letter.

He shot a grin at her over his shoulder. Then he moved to centre stage and began his athletics in earnest. It was most unfortunate that Charles chose this particular moment to utter the line: "Youth! Whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow!" With great conviction.

That was the final straw. Unable to look at William, or Isobel, or Sir Anthony, Elsie simply bolted off the stage, not caring that her Ladyship's calls of indignation were likely to follow. Fortunately she was saved from this by the fact that his Lordship- having been watching her expression with some amusement- also burst out laughing and Charles followed suit not long after. All she heard was her Ladyship's anguished cry of:

"After this, no more comedy! Never again a comedy!"

…**...**

A fit of benevolence on Lady Sybil's part, coupled with her mother's exhaustion, meant that they were released in time to join the party downstairs.

"Of course you're welcome too," Elsie told Lady Sybil, Isobel and Sir Anthony as she and Charles prepared to depart for downstairs, "It's strictly for the staff, but I can't see anyone turning you away." 

"You know, I should like nothing more than a party," Isobel admitted, evidently still in high spirits after William's rather enthusiastic improvisation, "Sybil?" 

"Why not?" Sybil shrugged her shoulders and followed them down the stairs gladly.

The party was in full swing by the time they arrived. In fact it was in rather fuller swing than Elsie had imagined; she shortly discovered that that was due to the fact that Mr Crawley and his friends had also been invited, probably, she thought a little ruefully, by one of her girls. Christopher and Gwen were dancing rather vigorously- looking weirdly symmetrical, Elsie would have sworn they really were twins if she hadn't know otherwise- and William was playing the piano very loudly in the corner. Mrs Patmore, a little red in the face looked about ready to burst into song and Mr Branson- apparently getting all the practice he could come by- sat on the table with the piano-accordion.

"Mother! What are you doing here?" young Mr Crawley asked over the merry chattering- alarmed at the unexpected arrival of his parent when he was evidently having such a good time.

"I heard there was a party, and I simply had to join it," she informed him bluntly, "I do think you rather underestimate me sometimes, Matthew."

Mr Crawley seemed to think that he would be best off without having to continue this particular conversation- where it might lead was anyone's guess, knowing Isobel- and he hurriedly asked Lady Sybil to dance and moved off with her. There was a hum of general good cheer about the servants' hall- the ease with which their employer's family and guests blended in attested for this. Charles said he would go and try to find them some wine and- offering his help- Sir Anthony followed him.

Given that she had looked so cheerful mere moments ago, Elsie was surprised to see a rather stricken look on Isobel's face as she gazed around the room. She nudged her friend's arm questioningly.

"I can't leave this," Isobel told her in quiet explanation, "As much as Cousin Violet aggravates me, as much as I feel dreadfully uncomfortable sometimes, I can't leave here, Elsie."

Gently, Elsie took her friend's arm and led her to a seat at the table.

"Have a drink," she advised, "Forget about it until tomorrow."

**Thank you all so much for sticking with this story, and thank you for reviewing! Two more chapters in this one by my calculations. Please review if you have the time.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Fluff. Of the Carson/Hughes kind. Followed by friendly fluff- does that exist?- of the Crawley/Hughes kind. Excuse all the fluff; the excellent angst we've been getting from Onesimus finally got to me. Don't count this as one of the two more chapters that I'd said there would be. **

In times of strain, they both found it generally acceptable if they dispensed with their policy of caution and slept beside one another every night. The comfort it provided was almost vital. In fact, they had been doing so ever since The Nose Incident.

"Elsie? Are you asleep?"

She knew it wasn't really a question, but was so miffed at being woken from her thoughts that she automatically replied, groggily:

"Yes."

She felt him turn over behind her.

"No, you're not, " he told her flatly; why ask, then?- it occurred to her to say, "I've shared your bed whenever I could for as good as the past twenty years; and I know you're never asleep when you're that fidgety. I highly doubt that anyone would be. What's the matter?"

She rolled on her back to lie beside him. This was what they did if they wanted to talk about something; lay flat on their backs beside each other. It was oddly therapeutic; they could watch each other or look away depending on how they felt. The slightly-wider-than-average beds that befitted their roles as butler and housekeeper allowed them to do so without either of them falling out, if their arms overlapped a little in the middle.

"I'm thinking of Isobel," she admitted, "And her problem."

"Her Lady Sybil Problem?"

Evidently he hadn't caught on to the events at the party.

"No, that was last time. It's the Lord Strallan Problem this time."

"Isn't she going to marry him, then?" he asked.

She made a sound of exasperated dismissal; at the moment that was anyone's guess.

"Her Ladyship led me to believe that it was all settled between them."

What her Ladyship led them to believe was not necessarily bound to be true, but she was damned if she could persuade him of it.

"She hasn't even said yes to him yet!" Elsie pointed out, "Everyone has just assumed that she will."

"But you said-..."

"I know, but since then it's seemed as if she'd been having... second thoughts, if you will. I'm not sure she realised before that she would most likely have to leave Downton. I'm not sure she's all too keen on that."

She could tell from his attitude the gist of what Charles was about to say before he did.

"You do both know that Lord Strallan's place is all of half an hour away by motor?" he enquired, radiating a rationality that gave her the urge to nudge him just enough to knock him out of bed.

"I knew you'd say that," she told him, "The thing is, Charles, Isobel's just got to really liking living here. At first there were all the problems with the Dowager Countess- don't try to stick up for her, you know fine well that old Violet was awful to her when she first arrived- and it took her a good time to get used to the village after leaving all the people she knew in Manchester. And now, well, she has me- I suppose- and I know she's become very fond of Lady Sybil, no matter what she says, and she enjoys living with Matthew; they get on very well."

"You'd have thought that would all pale into insignificance if she really wanted to marry Lord Strallan," he remarked.

She was suddenly curious.

"Did all of that pale into insignificance when you wanted to marry me?"

He did not say anything. With Charles, she knew to take silences like that to be affirmative. A sudden rush of affection swooped through her and she very much regretted wanting to turf him out of bed.

"I love you," she mumbled, kissing him on the shoulder quickly before continuing, "But you see I think that's the problem. With Isobel, that is. It didn't all pale into insignificance. And because of that she's not sure if she should marry him at all. Do you see the problem?"

He suddenly felt very tired.

"I think I do," he told her, "It just seems very sudden to me, all of it does."

She was half tempted to remind him that- when they were... well, establishing themselves- he'd hardly been keen to go at a snail's pace.

"That's not Isobel's fault," she told him gently, "She was taken completely by surprise when all of this came about. She...- well- you know."

She had already told him the story of what had happened on Christmas Morning.

"So what do you think will happen? What will she do?"

"I couldn't tell you."

"Come on," he nudged her gently, "We both know you're trying to work it out. I've seen you do this hundreds of times, if ever one of the girls looked likely to be getting a suitor."

There was a pause.

"I don't think she will, Charles," she confessed, "I don't want you to think badly of her; but I can't really see her going through with it after this. It's such a shame; he's such a nice man."

"I'd noticed you thought so," he remarked a little gruffly; recalling the several bursts of laughter that had occurred during the past few days, and always while those two were on stage together.

She looked up at him in utter condescension. She was very good at that.

"If you're going to suggest ridiculous things like that, you can go back to your room," she told him, but not overly seriously, "I'm not one for talking about industrial farming methods until they come out of my ears. On occasions he just has a very funny face."

Charles laughed.

"I'm safe, then?" he asked.

"For the moment."

He put his arm around her, telling her silently that she ought to get some sleep.

…**...**

The two of them sat in the front room of Crawley House on the evening before the performance. Sir Anthony and the young men had gone to The Grantham Arms, for a final game of billiards and Elsie had come round to keep Isobel company for the evening. It did not need to be said- though it was evident that they were both thinking it- that there would be no more of this if she moved to Lord Strallan's estate. While Isobel was mending odd scraps of costumes that had been damaged during the dress rehearsal, Elsie rather seemed to be off in her own little world.

"Where's your head tonight?" she asked with a little smile, "Not trying to solve any more of my problems, I hope. It's confusing enough with me trying to do that!"

Elsie cast her a sideways glance, quite glad that they had broached the topic.

"And have you got anywhere?"

"No," Isobel's voice was forcefully upbeat as she smoothed out a shirt before folding it and putting it on the pile of completed work. She sighed, "But I've no doubt that I'll get there. Eventually. How's Gwen?"

"Fine, I think, or as fine as can be expected. I checked on her before I came down here and she seemed alright. She assured me that she knew all of her lines, as if she was going to get in trouble."

"And she's not... sad, at all?"

Why on earth would she be sad?- Elsie wondered. Terrified out of her wits perhaps- she remembered how she'd felt before her début as Lady Macbeth-, but not sad.

"What do you know?" she demanded of Isobel; her suspicious side flourishing.

Isobel watched the pattern of her needlework rather fixedly.

"I _may _have noticed that she's been... getting on well with Christopher recently."

"You kept that one quiet!" Elsie exclaimed a little, mentally trying to find any evidence to support this notion. It was certainly true that they'd been dancing together at the New Year's Eve party, she'd seen them herself, and they would have spent quite some time together during rehearsals, "Heavens! Here was I naive enough to think she was looking so wistful over William!"

"No. To me it always seemed as if they were just friends," Isobel replied- thinking that Elsie might just have her eye on William, as she often did, "Anyway, you said he was after the kitchen maid; it's no wonder she's given up on him- if, that is there was something to give up. I thought _you _would have surely noticed," she continued calmly, then with a small smile, "Though perhaps you've been so busy minding me that you didn't."

Elsie was flummoxed; it was certainly unlike her to miss something like this, if she did say so herself. Isobel was looking thoughtful.

"You know," she began, "They look so alike; I shouldn't be at all surprised if their children were all completely identical."

Elsie had chosen the wrong moment to take a mouthful of tea and- at this notion- narrowly avoided spraying it everywhere. She coughed heavily. Only when she had spluttered half to death did Isobel look up.

"Don't worry," she told her gently- seeing that her friend's housekeeperly proprietorial instincts were on full flare, rather too full for her own good-, "It'll wear off, most likely. Oh, I know," she looked up again with a smile, "Your little dalliance got to be somewhat protracted. But Gwen and Christopher won't see each other until the summer."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Elsie reminded her tersely, choosing to ignore the use of the term "dalliance".

And the remark struck them both quiet; touching as it did on the situation they themselves were likely to face if this wedding went ahead. Isobel bowed her head hurriedly and went on stitching. It was at that moment that Elsie's conviction was sealed; Isobel would not marry Lord Strallan. Not at the present time.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	13. Chapter 13

**OK, so I was wrong again. Two more after this one. This is just a bit of odd fluff and in-jokes for the old Branson/Hughes shippers. Then a dash of Carson/Hughes and a dot of Crawley/Hughes. **

**Prelude to the Performance: Mr Branson Gets a Shock; Carson is Not Amused and Sybil is. Elsie Has to Put a Stop to All of This Madness.**

Mr Branson made the perfect jester, he had the right face for it, Elsie reflected with a smile as she came into the corridor on her way to the backstage area and found him adjusting the strap on the banjo he had on his back so that the ridiculous instrument did not trip him up. It came apart altogether and he swore under his breath. She couldn't help but snort a little bit- he did look rather ridiculous- drawing his attention to her presence. And then- for the second time in both their lives- he winked at her; bold as brass. Drawing herself up to a marginally more impressive height; she gave him her best look of disapproval. She had been right; red _was _a racy colour, no matter what Isobel said. Coughing a little in embarrassment and shuffling around in this silly dress- which she sorely regretted asking for now- she made a note to inform her friend that this was what came of trying to follow the fashions.

"You'd better sort that out," she told him flatly, "You've got to start us off, remember."

He was now just standing idle, staring at her. Hair down had obviously been a bad idea- what had she told them?- too. Though perhaps she really ought to count her blessings that she was _in _the dress this time. She decided to act as if he were not transfixed by her at all.

"Now that's not going to do it any good," she told him stoutly, taking the leather strap out of his hands and- seeing that he had bust the buckle good and proper- tied it in as tight a knot as she could muster.

This had little effect on wakening him up, however; he was watching her neck. She reflected that up until now he probably hadn't realised she had one. Or perhaps it was that wretched powder Isobel had put on her. She had insisted that it had been too much- she was quite pale enough as it was!- but then remembered that she had resolved to forget about that particular discussion for various reasons. She only hoped that when they did _Romeo and Juliet_ she would be assaulted less and that would limit themselves to their bare hands- as opposed to powder brushes and wooden swords.

Mr Branson was still groggily.

"Come on, lad," she told him sternly, tugging his arm to turn him around and giving a good slap on the back to set him off in the right direction. Perhaps he realised that he was lucky not to be getting his ears boxed as well, for slowly but surely he went on his way. Elsie breathed a sigh of relief; realising that she had started to blush. When she realised that Charles was in the doorway to the corridor, she only did so all the more furiously.

"I don't have to worry about him as well, do I?" he asked in a low voice as she came down the corridor to meet him, nodding after the impudent chauffeur.

She reached up and made sure his collar was on straight; Isobel had confessed to her that she found Charles rather too tall to check on without having to stretch and she wasn't sure how kindly in would be taken if she overbalanced and fell on him.

"Well, if you like you, he and Lord Strallan can fight to the death for my honour when this is over," she told him, squeezing his hand a little, "I suppose we ought to get on with this, then." She glanced towards the door to the backstage area with some apprehension, "It's only one quick kiss," she reminded him.

"In front of the whole village." 

"Minus one. I've seen Lady Violet look pointedly away when the moment comes. It'll make up for Mrs Patmore's goggling."

The cook and the other staff not directly participating had been invited to join the audience if they so wished. Hearing of the amount of... frivolity involved in the piece; Mrs Patmore had engaged herself a front row seat- though of course insisting in was so Daisy might be able to see without having to crane her neck over any tall gentleman's head. A likely tale.

"Thank God for small mercies."

"Quite."

"There you are, Mrs Hughes!"

They heard the door at the other end of the corridor go, stepping apart as they were used to doing. It was only, however, Isobel- her arms full of spare garments- and Lady Sybil- her voice raised.

"Has Branson gone to the stage yet?" Isobel enquired.

"Yes," Elsie informed her, "The cad."

It was a mark of how well Isobel knew Elsie- and what the servants here were likely to get up to- that she did not question this apparently perplexing remark at all.

"Come on," Sybil told the housekeeper, taking her arm, "You have to get ready to support my weeping person as we walk past Gwen."

"Very well, m'Lady."

She allowed Sybil to lead her in the direction of the backstage door. Isobel, when she caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of her eye, looked moderately harassed.

"Everyone for Act 1!"

They could hear her Ladyship in the backstage area, trying to organise her actors. With limited success, by the sounds of it. There was no time for Elsie to say anything, being tugged as she was towards the backstage area by Sybil, so, as she passed Isobel, she simply gave her elbow a little squeeze. She caught a half-hearted smile in reply.

"I say, Mrs Hughes, you do look splendid," Sybil whispered to her as they waited in the wings, watching as Mr Branson took to the stage.

"You're not the only one who thinks that," she replied a little ruefully.

Sybil followed Mrs Hughes' gaze.

"What? Tom?" she asked. She looked alarmingly ready to laugh. Elsie gave her a stern look; which unfortunately only acted to set her off into peels of silent laughter. Gwen had now taken to the stage.

"My Lady," Elsie hissed, as Sybil doubled over, "My Lady! Stop it! You're supposed to be weeping in about two minutes!"

When this continued for quite long enough, Elsie- counting down to their cue- was getting anxious. Sybil had straightened up, but remained the picture of mirth. Elsie bit her lip.

"My Lady, I'm dreadfully sorry to have to do this."

"Do what?" Sybil managed to heave quietly, before Elsie sharply boxed one of her ears. Really, with all the feathers she'd been ruffling recently, she was rather lucky that it hadn't before and, now that it had, it was done with the kindest of intentions.

"Thank you for that, Mrs Hughes," she said, taking her arm, sounding much more sober.

"Don't mention it, m'Lady."

Sybil looked sufficiently mournful just in time to be lead on stage.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	14. Chapter 14

**This chapter is very choppy and changey, I am sorry. Hopefully it will be comprehensible. It has driven me mad trying to write it. **

**The Performance.**

Anna and Mr Bates had deliberately avoided sitting in the front row with Mrs Patmore and Daisy. Knowing what would happen to both of them if she happened to catch William's eye while he was either dancing dressed in a curtain of doing his famous lunges- which were reported to be able to distract even Mrs Hughes-, they had opted for seats in the middle of the audience.

"Gwen and Lady Sybil are brilliant together," she whispered to John, applauding with the rest of the audience as the lights went down and the scene ended. Lady Sybil and Lord Strallan disappeared and- when the lights came back on- were replaced by Mr Crawley's friends James and Christopher.

Mr Bates nodded.

"I think even they might have been impressed," he jerked his head towards the back, where they had seen Miss O'Brien and Thomas settle themselves.

Anna craned her neck as unobtrusively as possible. Finding them, she noticed that both looked mildly sour-faced. They must be enjoying themselves, then.

"Well, they aren't complaining," she told him quietly, "Can't find anything to criticise, I don't think." 

He smiled wryly.

"Nothing's gone wrong yet," he commented, "But there's still the lunges to come."

Anna bit her lip to stop herself laughing. That scene was followed by another one with Gwen, this time with Sir Anthony. She was doing very well, Anna thought; given the basis on which Lady Sybil chose the leading ladies- one because she was Scottish and the next because she looked enough like someone- she had been remarkably fortunate that they both transpired to be able to act. But Gwen was still a very Gwenish Viola, Anna thought, though perhaps that was because she saw her every day and knew her mannerisms very well. She did not know much about the character, apart form what she'd overheard from various discussions that had sprung up at different times around the house, but when the scene ended there was another burst of applause from the more learned ladies and gentlemen in the audience.

"It was a good idea," John spoke again in a low voice during the applause, "The present. I think she'll suit it."

"I thought so," Anna agreed, "It was a good suggestion of Mrs Hughes'. And she'll need it, if she's going to this here party tonight. Do you think she's guessed that we're up to something?"

"I don't think so. She was busy enough learning her lines last night. Where have you all been keeping it?"

"Mr Molesley hid it for us in the cupboard at Crawley House."

They fell silent once more. Mr Carson and William had appeared on the stage. Though Anna had never thought she'd say this;- in this play at least- their presence seemed to act as something of a harbinger of sheer madness. She gave Mr Bates a sideways smile- suspecting that he was probably thinking something along the same lines. All they needed now was for Mrs Hughes, Mr Branson and possibly Lord Strallan to turn up and they would have the "dreadful hoo-hah" they had heard Lady Violet complaining about earlier in the week.

…**...**

Elsie was enjoying herself enormously. Her very favourite part of the play was coming up; she had just finished her singing- and hadn't messed the notes up- and, not to put too fine a point on it, it was time for things to get silly. She was rather ruing the prospect of having to return to the sombre business of housekeeping after this; and only hoped that her young charges wouldn't choose to remember how fond of having a good time she had been, they might hold it against her.

It was all fine at the moment, her character was supposed to have a sense of humour, and she was allowed to give the odd giggle to demonstrate as much. She thought that if she'd have to keep a straight face while William danced around it a curtain she would have surely imploded. There was, however, the small problem of Lord Strallan and his Serious Face. Well she thought, for a good fraction of the time he was on stage, she was busy looking at his legs and for the rest of it she could just watch his shoulder or the top of his ear. If she managed to avoid eye contact with him she would be alright. Or she could bare in mind the fact that tonight Isobel was going to tell him that she wasn't going to marry him after all and that he was shortly to have his heart broken. Yes, she thought, that should keep her nice and sombre.

…**...**

"Well done everyone, well done." 

Her Ladyship had come to see them during the interval, as she seemed to enjoy doing. To her right hand side stood Lady Violet, glaring her approval at them, leaning imperiously on her walking stick. This gave the backstage area a much more inhibited air than last time, perhaps that was why her Ladyship had brought her along with her. This inhibition was the case in every contingent but one.

"Costumes!" Isobel called, standing briefly on a chair to attract their attention, "Anyone who's costume needs adjusting or fixing, over here!"

Lady Violet looked haughty at this gratuitous frivolity, though probably more because it was Isobel than the particular degree of the frivolity. Mr Branson went to have his troublesome banjo strap seen to, was reprimanded for having been so careless with it, and then her Ladyship continued. Perhaps, Elsie reflected momentarily, Isobel's overt exuberance was her way of channelling her nerves.

"You're all doing splendidly," her Ladyship told them, "Sybil dear- where is she?- oh yes. Sybil, your anguish it your first scene was the best you've done!"

"It ought to have been," Sybil announced, far more loudly than Elsie wished she would, "Mrs Hughes had just walloped me around the head!"

Lady Sybil probably sounded far too proud of that, she thought. She was about to protest to her Ladyship that she had meant no harm by it and had done it for all of their sakes but didn't quite manage to before Lady Violet spoke.

"Well done, Mrs Hughes," the Dowager sounded genuinely congratulatory- almost as if she wished she'd had the idea herself.

Her Ladyship evidently picked up on this note in her mother-in-law's tone, for she decided not to pursue the matter any further for the moment.

"Anyway," she continued, "Just keep at it, everyone. And remember to get Mrs Hughes well out of the way before you start the duelling scene! Cousin Isobel? Where are you? Have you got the stockings ready for Act 3 Scene 4?"

"They're there on the props table."

There was a pause. As most of the cast had taken upon themselves to sit on the props table, there was much shuffling about as they all got up to look for them.

"Mrs C?" Sybil called, hovering awkwardly beside Matthew, "They're not here."

"They must be," Isobel got up to look for herself, "That's where Sir Anthony put them when he took them off for the interval."

There was a sense of looming dread. In the absence of yellow stockings, they simply could not go on. It sounded ludicrous, but if they had come to appreciate one thing over the past four weeks it was how much of _Twelfth Night _pivoted around flamboyant stockings.

"Keep calm," her Ladyship instructed them, her voice suggesting that she was doing quite the opposite herself, "William, how long do we have left before we're on again?"

"Ten minutes, m'Lady."

"Right," her Ladyship took a deep breath, "We have nine and a half minutes to find these stockings. Everyone find their own space and search it to within an inch of its life." Under this sudden strain Lady Grantham's diction had become deadly.

Everyone went to it with a fervour. All except one, that is.

"Amateurs," Lady Violet declared, leaning heavily on her walking stick, "I'm working with a band of amateurs!"

…**...**

The second half only began five minutes later than scheduled, but it certainly didn't go unnoticed in certain contingents.

"Wonder what they were all up to?" Thomas asked as the curtain went back up to rather relieved applause from the rest of the audience.

Sarah shrugged in reply.

"Maybe old Hughsie got the stage fright again."

Thomas snorted.

"I highly doubt that kissing old Carson'd give her stage fright. Poor woman," he added, thoroughly unsympathetically, "From what you said they get up to enough of that anyway." 

"Keep it quiet, man," she glanced around their neighbouring spectators with some alarm, but they were all concentrating on the stage where Lord Strallan had appeared- looking like a right idiot, she might add-, "I told you I only overheard the end of what got said."

"You overheard," he hissed in reply, "Mrs Crawley asking her if he'd ever asked her to marry him. And her saying yes, if I remember rightly."

"Still, like you said, we need to save something like that up for when we really need it," she told him, "That's if it turns out to be true."

He gave her a sceptical glance.

"Since when do you care if what you tell people's true? If they're fool enough to believe a lie, you usually let them."

Sarah said nothing in reply; old Hughsie was on stage herself. With her reported fancy man.

…**...**

And now, it was time for what was the highlight of the play for most of the cast. It was silly, it wasn't even a creation of Shakespeare's. The sheer genius was all William's; in the way he marched onto the stage- the picture of comic misplaced self-assurance- brandishing a sword about; and looking as if he was preparing to run the hundred yards. He was going to do his lunges.

Gwen and Sybil peered around the curtain, mercifully, they were not in this part of the scene but were need on stage shortly enough to be able to get in the wings. Standing side by side, they peered around the curtain to get a good view. Oh, how they pitied Mrs Hughes for being in the audience's line of vision and having to keep a straight face. As it happened, the housekeeper had devised the ingenious contrivance of keeping her back largely to William throughout the scene, but they both knew she still had problems keeping herself in check.

Then Mr Carson began reading that ridiculous letter:

"Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow."

From where Gwen stood she could just about see Mrs Patmore in the front row- dressed impressively in her Sunday best- and laughing her head off.

…**...**

It could not be put off forever, Elsie realised. This blasted kiss had to be done. Close your eyes and think of England. Excluding the portion of England that seems have crowded into this drawing room to ogle at you. It's not difficult. "Nothing you haven't done before," Lady Sybil had told her slyly one day in rehearsals. Goodness, she was glad she'd walloped the girl!

So she took a deep breath, and did it. There, nothing to it really. Mrs Patmore's eyes were on stalks. It was alright she told herself, feeling herself blush in a little in this ridiculous frock; all you have to do is to stand there, look at Mr Branson and then you can leave the stage.

And then Mr Branson winked at her. In an exaggerated manner. So that the audience could see.

Well, it was nicely in character, really. The audience laughed appreciatively. Elsie wished she could vanish off the face of the stage.

…**...**

And finally, finally, it was time for the final scene. Gwen and Christopher stood there, looking at each other, so strangely similar except that she was a little bit shorter. There was a definite sense of finality about it. It was a shame, really, that they were already signed up to do a tragedy next time; comedy was so much more comforting in the oddest of ways. None of the characters had been murdered for one thing; ridiculed to within an inch of their life, yes, but not murdered.

When the curtain went down it was to thunderous applause from the audience. A sigh of relief was breathed amongst the cast.

**Once again, I am sorry about the hectic nature of this chapter. Please review if you have the time. The After-Show is still to come.**


	15. Chapter 15

Once the curtain call was over, there was a flurry of activity backstage from the costume department. Indeed, it seemed as if she had been in a flurry of activity all day but this most recent one appeared to exceed all those which had yet occurred.

"Have you got it?" Elsie came hurrying of the stage to join Isobel.

"Molesley brought it round during Act 5," she replied, hastily lifting the lid off the box to check that the contents was undamaged and replacing it before anyone could see.

"Hello," Anna appeared, having slipped quickly out of the audience to join them. She wanted to see the look on Gwen's face, and, after all, she had helped with the stitching, "Is it here?" she asked Mrs Hughes.

"There it is," Elsie indicated to the box on the table between herself and Isobel.

"Mrs C, have you got the package with you?" Lady Sybil came charging off the stage, needing to get there before Gwen did.

"For Heaven's sakes, yes!" Isobel told them all, finally exasperated, "You must all think I'm completely incompetent to forget Gwen's present on the day that she's going to need it."

"You've got me a present?" Gwen's voice- full of surprise- came from beside the stage.

She had obviously heard Isobel's exclamation even over the noise the audience was making on the other side of the curtain. Sybil threw Isobel a furious look.

"Well, yes," Elsie told her, "We thought you deserved something for all of your hard work on this play, and it's something of a Christmas present as well, I suppose. You've got it for a reason, though," she added, as if warning her not to expect this every year.

"Yes," Sybil continued, "Mama's having a party this evening for all of our friends who are here. Matthew, Christopher and I would have been going anyway, and we didn't think it was really fair that we should all go and not you; you had the most lines, after all. Anyway, they'll all want to meet Viola; they won't really care about us."

"And we thought you'd need something to wear," Anna added, with a small smile.

"Yes!" Isobel handed her the large box, "So there it is. I had all of your measurements anyway."

Inside the box was a dark purple evening dress; long, flowing, soft material that- Gwen thought as she lifted it up to look at better- she wouldn't have been able to afford on a year's wages.

"Where did it come from?" she wanted to know, "Who p-...?" 

"Papa," Sybil told her dismissively, "He won't mind. You were a very good leading lady."

As Gwen, Anna and Sybil stood admiring the dress; excited as little girls playing with their mother's clothes, Elsie took Isobel gently to the side.

"When are you going to do it?" she asked in a low voice, "You know, you still could accept if you wanted to."

"No I couldn't."

"What?" Elsie asked, perplexed, "You mean you've already told him?"

Isobel nodded, rather sadly.

"When on earth did you find the time?" trying not to sound too flippant, shocked as she was at this rather speedy work.

"When William was doing his lunges."

Elsie was hard-pressed not to put a hand to her mouth; while everyone else was in hysterics, Lord Strallan was backstage having his heart broken.

"Oh, Isobel. How did he take it?"

Isobel bit her lip a little bit.

"Like a true gentleman. He said he understood perfectly. In fact, he said he wished he'd made it clearer when he proposed that he would want us to live at his estate." 

It seemed when she spoke these words as if Isobel was more than a little saddened by them. Her eyes were a little bit glazed as she spoke.

"You're upset," Elsie told her sympathetically.

"A little, yes," Isobel admitted, "But it was my decision; and I am determined to live with it. None of this silly melancholy nonsense."

"No," Elsie agreed, goodness, she admired her friend sometimes, "We'll have enough of that by the time _Romeo and Juliet_ comes around."

…**...**

Of course, there was seldom ever a party upstairs without their being a reactionary one of sorts downstairs too. In fact, the downstairs party was going to be held upstairs- if that made any sort of sense. By eight o'clock that evening the guests had largely left the drawing room and the household had flocked en masse up to the bachelors' corridor. Mrs Patmore had made some platters of sandwiches and cakes beforehand which were perched on a chest of drawers and everyone was enjoying themselves.

In fact they were probably enjoying themselves a little bit too much. A couple of drinks inside him and Mr Branson had taken it upon himself to lead them all in loud choruses of almost every song from Twelfth Night. It was revenge, he rather boldly informed a disapproving Lady Violet when she enquired, for all the singing he'd had to do by himself for the past four weeks. Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson- having had to sing themselves- were exempt, but everyone else was to join in.

And then there was dancing; there always seemed to be dancing these days. Perhaps it was because the cold weather meant they had to stay inside. A very, very genial Lord Grantham, still wearing his gardener's hat from his costume- perhaps having had a drink as well- asked Elsie if she would like to dance. Glancing quickly at Charles, she knew he was not about to deny his Lordship a dance with her and accepted. Her Ladyship laughed approvingly as Elsie was spun around the room at high speeds and, when the music had stopped, told her that her sympathies were with her; after all these years she herself was not quite used to his Lordship's dancing.

Across the room she could see Isobel. All three of her young house-guests were trying to win her favour for a dance. But she had her eyes fixed on Lord Strallan, and, seeing as much he got up, crossed the room and offered her his arm. Isobel had been right, he was a true gentleman. He didn't even care that Lady Edith's sulking was aimed chiefly in his direction.

"He took it very well, then?" Lady Sybil spoke from beside Elsie.

"Remarkably well, it seems," Elsie replied, choosing not to remark that she hadn't even been aware that Sybil had known about this latest development, "Shouldn't you be dancing with Mr Branson?" she enquired.

Sybil gave her an odd enquiring look.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd have approved," she remarked.

"I don't, officially," Elsie assured her, "But he really does need someone to wink at other than me. And it does seem a waste."

"Are you talking about me not dancing with him _now_ ?" she asked pointedly.

"Of course."

Lady Sybil grinned.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes," she told her genuinely, "I don't know how I get anything done without you here to wallop me round the ears."

And with that she headed off in search of Mr Branson and Elsie was left to wonder at the lunatics she lived with.

**End.**

**Thank you very much t anyone who stuck with this all the way through! Please review if you have the time.**

"**The Merry Wives of Downton and the "Grand" Finale." What out for it. :)**


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